May the bridges I burn light the way.

You jerked up, looking at him. 

Robby leant over the counter, sliding on his glasses and looked closer. 

He was too close to you to be studying you like a patient, but just close enough for his wife. 

“You eat anything today?” he asked. 

You squinted at him. “We literally got breakfast this morning.”

“Okay, okay.”

There were darkening circles under your eyes and your lips were chapped which was his first sign something was wrong: you treated moisturising your lips like some do religion. Other than that your body was slumped over a computer. You were far more active than this. 

“You sleep okay last night?” he asked.

You smirked. “Well no, not really, someone kept me up.”

Robby smirked right back, leaning back just enough to give you space. “Are you complaining?”

“No.”

Flashbacks of last night came to mind in searing heat. The sweat of your bodies, the grip he held on your hand as he fucked you into the mattress like he did most nights. 

They said your libido goes down the older you get but Robby was going through another one. His box of blue pills sat abandoned in his bedside draw- thank god. 

Robby nodded once. “Good.”

“But that saying,” you continued, swivelling in your chair to face him. Still, he didn't move. He could smell the shampoo you'd bathed yourself in this morning and his mouth salivated like a dog with his favourite treat. “Four rounds?”

Robby took a quick sweep of the area, making sure nobody was missing him and his wife as they flirted shamelessly. “You asked for it.”

You frowned. “Did I?”

“Hey!” called Dana. “Mr and Mrs Adams, we could use your help here!”

You playfully rolled your eyes and Robby backed away slowly, hands up in surrender. He watched Dana turn to at least give them a second to finish up their flirting before digging into his pocket. 

“Here- for your lips.”

A small, practically un-used tube of chap-stick fell from the palm of his hand to yours. He carried it for you, always. If you'd asked you'd know he carried an extra pack of nuts and hand cream too. 

He'd been doing so secretly since your first dates years ago. 

Of course the supplies were different but the sentiment the same.

You blushed, a bright smile coming to your face. “You are so adorable.”

Robby shook off the word like it was splash of cold water. “Yeah, don't let onto anyone, okay? Got a cold exterior to keep up.”

“Oh- of course.”

He could have stood there and watched you all day but he already felt Dana's gaze, un-wavering. He squeezed your shoulders and pressed a kiss on your forehead before slipping away with a quiet promise to himself that he'd get his hands on you later.

“You don't look so well, you know,” said Dana once the coast was clear of Robby. 

“Don't you start,” you said. “I've had enough of this the last couple days from Robby.”

“Oh yeah, you got something?” Dana's hand was gentle on your back. If you weren't careful she'd push you onto a bed, have you in a gown with a chart written up herself. She'd mother you; smother you in her care even if she wasn't a doctor. Even if you were the attending around the place. 

You shook your head and flashed her a un-convincing smile. 

You were sure it was a bug, or burn out.

You'd caught burn out like some do colds or flus. As the second attending it was your job- with Robby's- to make sure everyone was taught, that patients were satisfied (you found you were doing that part for your husband as well) and you were saving as many lives as you could. 

The careful art of delegation and avoidance was lost on you. You threw yourself into traumas like you were still a med student with something to prove.

“Okay, if you say so,” said Dana with a purse of her lips. 

“I do say so.”

“If you need anything.”

“Am I married to you or Robinavitch?” you teased, tugging on gloves and readying yourself for a room of hustle. 

Dana chuckled, backing away slowly to her station. “You should be so lucky, Robinavitch.”

Using the weight of your back you pushed into trauma two. 

“Okay, kids- what have we got?”

“Fetal heart rate one-two-eight.”

Whitaker was at your side in an instant, handing you the chart. “Woman in her late twenties, came in complaining of cramping and migraines, twenty-nine weeks along.”

“BP is one-seventy, over one-nineteen.”

The woman was on her side, a whole score of nurses and doctors around her. It was always double the team for pregnant ladies. When there were two patients to care for in a package of one.

“Six grams of magnesium going in.”

You floated around the room, Whitaker following you like some guard dog. You took in everything going on, reading stats and taking in numbers everyone gave to you. “Okay, ma'am, I'm Doctor Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robin. It seems you have a medical condition called preeclamsia.”

The woman's eyes were teary and dark as they looked up to you in fear. “Wh-what?”

“Preeclampsia. Now that we know what it is we can help you.”

“But it was- it was just a headache,” she cried, hand cradling her stomach on instinct. “Is my baby going to be okay?”

“We are doing everything to make sure you and the baby do just fine,” you assured her, speaking a language you'd become fluent in. Diagnosis and comfort. Sometimes, when the job got tough, you wondered if you even really believed the words you were saying. They just floated from your tongue typically. 

“The thing is with your condition we have to take you up to OB and deliver this baby,” you told her. 

“OB's been paged,” Santos informed you. 

“But it's too early,” the woman sobbed, clutching at her rounded stomach like she could keep the baby there. 

“I know but the baby's pulse is strong which is good,” you told her. “And if we want to keep the ball rolling in the right direction we have to got to get to it now, okay?”

“Doctor Robin,” said Whitaker. “Labs are back in.”

“Read them to me.” You were still holding the lady's hand over her stomach, trying to comfort her. 

“Hemoglobin seven-point-five, platelets forty. LFT's are... woah-”

“Don't hold out on us Huckleberry, what's going on?” asked Santos. 

“They're high- real high-”

“Which can mean?” you ask out to the room, remembering the hundreds of times Gloria reminded you off your status as a 'teaching hospital,'. 

“HELLP syndrome,” said Denis. 

“Point to you.”

Under your hand the patient began to tremble. A quick glance at the monitor showed her blood pressure rising. Panic, most likely, something else it could have been entirely. 

“Hey, boy or a girl?” you asked, watching her eyes flicker. “Do you know what you're having?”

She blinked slow. “Boy.”

“Any name ideas?”

Her mouth had opened to say something but instead of a name vomit spewed, rolling down the gurney and splashing your scrubs- the one time you didn't put on a gown. 

“Oh shit- she's seizing!”

Everyone and you reacted quickly in holding her, trying to calm her shakes. 

It had never happened before, you'd never had so many senses tuning it an once but the smell of her breakfast wafted up to your nose. An un-familiar roll in your stomach curdled and you pursed your lips shut, turning away and burying your nose into the still fresh part of your scrubs. 

“Fifteen litres on by mask!” Whitaker yelled. “Intubation?”

He was looking to you. 

You shook your head, unable to speak with half your focus going on calming the insides of your stomach.

“With all the seizing we can't get a read on the baby's status,” said Santos. 

Fuck- you'd have to say something. You couldn't leave a fresh doctor and student into clampsia blind. “Ultrasound,” you breathed out, still unable to face where the sick started to soak into your scrubs. “Check on baby!” 

If Santos and Whitaker thought it was strange they said nothing, following you orders and relaying what they found. 

“Doctor Robin- do we intubate?”

Another set of hands came up to help steady her and you could back away. 

Even your shoes hadn't been spared the mercy of the vomit. 

“Not yet, push keppra, four grams.”

Grabbing clothes cutters you quickly sliced at your scrub top, thankful you were wearing something long sleeved and covering more of you then a simple vest. 

With the top in shreds you could finally breath but your stomach didn't get the memo.

“Pulse Ox eighty-eight!”

Groaning, you pulled the tray out for intubation, handing it to Santos. 

She glanced at you. “Hey, you look a bit-”

“- don't say sick or I'll throw up on you,” you warned, following her around like she was your new human shield. You wondered if she'd be flattered or pissed if you admitted she was. “Push probofal.”

“Pushing.”

Eventually the seizing stopped with everything you pushed to get her stable and you moved quick. It was like putting everything else on aeroplane mode, shutting off your own systems to get hers stable.

“Intubate, get an EEG to check her brain levels. She's paralysed now but her brain could still be seizing.”

You slipped in sick, grabbing yourself on the nearest doctor and thanking them. You stayed for the intubation only then knew you couldn't hack it anymore. 

You fled the room, bumping into Samira on your way out. 

Dana jolted up. “Hey, what're you-”

“-get Robby in trauma one.”

You found the nearest bathroom, locked it and threw up everything. You hugged the toilet like it was your anchor, your body curling into the movements. Time escaped you, it could have been minutes it could have been hours but finally you fell back and flushed, wiping away everything. 

You were young, you weren't as old as your husband. You'd had less experience in traumas all together, however you were a good doctor, capable enough to be a fellow attending. 

Several substances had been chucked over you in your time. Blood, vomit, piss- some you didn't even know the name off. 

Why had today been any different?

Clearing yourself up: re-tying your hair, washing out your mouth and applying Chapstick, cleaning your shoes and wiping tears from under your eyes, you blamed it on the bagels you'd had that morning. 

It was the only logical explanation.

Leaving the bathroom you felt momentary guilt and fleeing but spotted Robby already taking your place in the trauma. 

“Hey, hun,” Dana was at your side quick, gentle and peering at you closely. “What was that about? You doin alright?”

“Yeah,” you hummed. 

“You throw up? You sick?”

“No, I-” you thought of every other time you'd lied to Dana and how it never went well. “Yes but it's probably just food poisoning. Don't tell Robby.”

If Robby knew you were sick- after already having been worried this morning- you'd be driven home in twenty minutes flat. 

“Robby always finds out,” said Dana. 

You ignored her and pushed open the door to the lounge. She didn't follow and you were left with spare seconds to yourself. 

Your hands shook slightly as you fetched a glass to fill with water. To cool yourself down you ran your hands under, splashing the back of your neck with some. You gargled water and spit it back, ready to drain the glass and wet your sudden parched mouth when Langdon appeared in the door. 

“Hey, I've got a head lac I need you to take a look at.”

Because you were an attending. Because of the kind of person you are you put down the glass and followed him.

“She just ran out?”

There was the all too familiar buzz of the sanitiser dispenser as Robby helped himself to a generous blob before rubbing it into his hands. A beat behind, Denis did the same, following in his footsteps- literally. 

“Er-yeah,” he said, working fast to absorb every bit of hand sanitiser. “She ordered the EEG and bolted.”

Robby nodded, taking it all in clinically. “You said she looked pale?”

“Yeah but, she had just been thrown up on.” 

Being thrown up on wasn't a pleasant experience but he hadn't known you to run from bodily fluids. 

“Where is she now?” Robby asked, as if Denis was the soul person to look out for you. Well, Robby trusted Denis, a gift he didn't bestow on many so he did expect Denis to keep an eye on you at all times. 

“She went to the bathroom but I don't know now.”

Robby checked the bathrooms, finding you void of those spaces. He checked the lounge where nothing but a deserted glass of water sat.

He was almost panicking when he saw the back of you and Frank in a room. 

He paused. 

You were sat next to a young girl, holding her hand. Although he couldn't hear you he imagined the softness of your voice as it always became when dealing with a pedes case. You'd always joked that if the ED wasn't so in need of two attendings at a time you'd have left his ass for pedes upstairs at once. 

Robby didn't think so. For one, you'd miss his face, for the second thing- you liked bouncing from one emergency to another, switching off and relying only on your skills. 

You hadn't been bouncing around as quick as usual the last couple days. He realised it only in that moment.

Frank was standing with his arms folded over his chest, pitching in every now and then and also getting the girl to smile. 

He didn't want to go in, break the concentration and trust you'd formed with the small child. He'd find you later. 

Whatever was going on, the two of you clearly had it handled. 

Your dreams came to you in fades. 

There was first an annoyingly weird dream about a animal circus finding it's home in the Pitt. They said work followed you home, but it even followed you into dreams which seemed just un-fair. Then there was a stork on an elephants back. How would an elephant even get in to the place?

They turned to some much more enjoyable memories that had your body warming un-consciously. 

Robby's weight pressed down into yours on the couch in your living room. You'd begged him to put everything on you, to not hold himself up and with-hold his moans. 

And because you'd asked, he did. 

Robby wasn't a light guy and you liked him like that. The weight of him crushing you, his spit swapped with yours, sweat of his body being shared and the fingerprints you could feel at your hips. 

“Oh fuck sweetheart, oh fuck!” he'd groaned out loud. 

You felt parts of him deep in you you didn't know you could feel and still you wanted more. Your locked your ankles around his backside, keeping him into you in short and sweet thrusts. 

“Oh, you like that? Jesus Christ,” he grunted into your neck, unable to hold himself up even if he wanted to. “So greedy. Fuckin' so greedy!”

“Please, Robby, please!”

Steady hands were sudden at your shoulders and a body pressed up to yours, decidedly unlike how one did in the dream. 

“Go home,” said Robby. 

You picked yourself up from where you'd dozed off, your head in your arms folded over on the counter. In front of you, the computer was blank. “Hm?”

Robby's eyes bored into yours. “Go home, you're sick.”

“It's only twelve. I'm not sick- I'm fine,” you said, waving off his hand as it came up to test your temperature in the very medical practise of hand on forehead. 

Robby shook his head. “You were dozing this morning, you're asleep now, you threw up-”

“Dana, I told her not to say anything!” You cursed under your breath. 

“Not Dana, Whitaker,” said Robby, looking at you with brows draw in, somewhere between anger (or as angry as he could get at you) and concern. “Did you tell Dana not to tell me?”

“Because you worry.” You used your secret trick of overwhelming affection to try to starve off Robby. Your hands were clammy as they held his cheeks, fingertips grazing over his beard just how he liked. He was kneeling at your side, melting into your touch. “I'm fine.”

For extra measures you pressed a kiss to his forehead and walked away. 

There was a split second of head spinning blur. The sort that had you reaching out to balance yourself. It lasted maybe two seconds but enough to worry you. 

If you hadn't taken such care in tending to Robby's own distraction he'd have clocked it and dragged you home himself. 

You maybe weren't so fine. It wasn't every day you felt as tired as you did now, and however good the night before had been Robby had given you more. Plenty. You'd surpassed twenty-fours working in the ED with no sleep so nothing could phase you. 

But being phased you were. 

The lack of sleep.... the throwing up... maybe you were coming down with something. 

You'd thrown up last week too, so it couldn't be food poisoning like you were trying to convince yourself it was. 

Robby hurried after you, the jingle of his keys and ID card and such jangling. “I'm keeping my eyes on you.”

“Sexy.”

In trauma one the two of you worked together with a score of doctors and nurses. Mrs Albany- the pregnant lady with clampsia- demanded attention. Perhaps it was a waste of two attendings working on the same patient. 

The emergency c-section you had to perform made the one patient two and as Robby worked to keep the mother alive you worked on the child, stimulating the baby boy till he breathed, wiping off the fluids and bloods and sighing when he cried out. 

Under the gown and mask you could see Robby's own dimples at you as you both saved lives. 

But the tang of iron from the uterus and child filled your nostrils and upset you close enough to tears. You were glad Esme had cleaned up the sick from early and equally as glad you had the chance to throw up your breakfast so you couldn't do it again. 

“Holy shit!” Santos celebrated, yanking off her gown and gloves next to you as you did the same, “That was crazy!”

The baby was pushed by you, heading up to the NICU, the mother following, a pulse low but steady, heading up to the OR.

You ducked away from Robby as he followed the pair out. You took Santos with you, a pushing hand on her back. “Yeah, it was- listen I've got a patient that needs blood results quick, you think if I get it you can rush it up to labs, on an ASAP basis.”

Santos frowned. You knew what she was thinking before she even had to say it. It was a boring job, her skills were better off etc. 

“Please?” you asked. 

It took a roll of her eyes but she agreed to. 

Five minutes later you had a vial of your own blood handed to her. 

An hour later Santos found you, Ipad in hand. 

“Hey, got the results for your patient,” she said. “Where are they? What room? I couldn't see them on the board?”

Dana would have had something to say about taking your own blood and getting it to labs without telling anyone. Robby too. As attending you should have been chastising yourself but there was no time for that. No need, either. 

Doctors made the worst sort of patients, especially when they felt they didn't need to be one. 

“Er, she left, discharged herself,” you lied quickly, trying to get a gage on the results that were cradled in your arm.

“Bummer. I wanted to give her good news. Or bad.”

“What?”

“She's pregnant.”

You stopped in you tracks. 

It took Trinity at least four more paces before she realised you had. 

The blood works showed just that. High HCG levels, you red blood cell count was high. Along with the nausea, vomiting, dizzy spells it made sense. 

You were pregnant. 

Inside the stomach that had been churning all day sat a life fully depending on you to take care of it. Suddenly none of your med school training mattered. Nothing you'd ever down before mattered. Looking after patients was one thing. You didn't have to go home with them, check they drank enough or ate enough, didn't have to check in with their boss they were taking it easy. 

You struggled to look after yourself. 

Throw a baby in the mix and you were doomed. 

Chuck in Robby and you were-

Robby. 

Jesus Fuck. You'd never spoken about kids. You'd only been married a year and were still in what some considered the 'honeymoon' phase.

“Everything okay?” asked Santos. “Did I miss something in the results?”

You cleared your throat. “No. No, that all... looks good. I'm just gonna take a small break. Quick one. Thanks.” 

“Hey, Robby!” Denis called as he walked out from the ambulance bay. “Congratulations!” 

“Thanks, Whitaker.”

It took Robby seconds to pause and think. What was he being congratulated for? The fact he went outside for some air? It wasn't impressive. Was it the quick life saving procedures they'd made on mother and son that sent them both upstairs alive? That was over an hour ago and Denis had been in the room. 

Robby back tracked to Whitaker. “What am I being congratulated on, exactly?” he asked. 

Whitaker looked at him like he was crazy. “The good news.”

Good news? The last good news he had was marrying you a year ago, and Whitaker had been at the damn wedding crying more than his own grandmother. 

Robby shook his head. 

“The good news, you'll be a great dad.”

Robby chocked on his breath, leaning on the counter. “Wh-what?” he chuckled in a breath. 

“You're pregnant? I mean, not you, obviously, I-I know how it works. But you're having a baby, that's-that's what they say and I just wanted to say well done. Or not well done! No, that came out wrong, jus-”

Robby had let him stumble on his words as he tried to figure out what he was saying. The baby? What baby? “Denis, what are you talking about?”

He looked around quickly for you but couldn't see you. 

“Oh my god, you didn't know, you didn't know did you?” Whitaker's face paled, his entire body sinking. “Santos told me, she told me not to tell anyone but I-I figured I could tell you! I guessed- oh god, did I just tell you your wife is pregnant?”

His wife...

Pregnant...

And Robby was finding out from Huckleberry!

Robby took a step around the counter and Denis stumbled back into his chair. “Are you telling me she's...”

Whitaker nodded when the words failed him. 

Robby thought back to the sickness you thought he'd missed last week, the way you fell asleep at the computer earlier and the general exhaustion. He tried to think back to what night could have been 'the one' but somewhere along the line you'd both stopped being careful. Condoms were abandoned in draws and your pack of contraceptive pills were still full.

“Doctor- Doctor Robby? Do you need to sit down?” Denis asked. 

Robby waved him off and gave himself one minute to compose himself. He knew panic, it was an old friend he'd lost contact with over the years, yet it returned to him then. 

“Where is she now?” he asked. 

“Oh, I don't- I don't-”

“Huckleberry!” he tried not to expose his fondness of the nickname Santos had given him but it slipped out in the most desperate of times. 

Denis gulped, knowing this. “Exam room three.”

Robby nodded and made a be-line, Casey was asking him a question as he passed but he held up a hand, ignoring her. 

Santos stepped out the room, closing the door and stopping when Robby almost collided with her. “You can't go in there.”

Robby inhaled a deep breath. It was one thing having Whitaker be the one to tell him you were pregnant. It was another to have Santos blocking him from seeing you. “Doctor Santos if you don't let me through you will miss every trauma that comes through those doors.”

Luckily, he knew how to work Santos. 

Her arms budged over her chest. “For how long?”

Whatever you had promised her to keep him out must have been just as grand a prize. “Till I see fit now let me in.”

It was like a western stand off for longer than Robby would have liked. Every second he spent out of your room was longer you were spending alone. 

Eventually, Trinity sighed and gave up. “Okay, fine, whatever, but she promised me first dibs at a REBOA for doing this. I expect that to still stand.”

Robby pushed through the room and snapped back the curtains finding you at the edge of a bed, the wand of an ultrasound hidden under your top and the grey scale picture of a baby on the monitor. 

To your credit you didn't flinch or move as he stood there.

“Lets be real this is not the worst thing you've caught me doing.”

In five minutes Robby had wiped down your stomach of the gel, had helped pull your top down and sat with you on the edge of the patient bed, the curtain back to being pulled over and hiding the two of you from traumas and agitated patients and doctors alike. 

“How long have you known?” asked Robby. 

There was no anger, no mean undertones. It was frightening rather blank, the way he spoke. You'd always prided yourself on knowing how to tell when he was in a good mood or bad from the smallest of tics he had. 

He'd trained them out of himself apparently. 

Yet- he'd given you his hand and you'd pulled it into your lap, holding it and trailing your own fingers over his. 

“The time's now-” you peeked over him at the clock over the door. “- about an hour and thirteen minutes.”

He shook his head, scoffing out a smile that pronounced his wrinkles. “Why didn't you come to me?”

You sighed, shrugging your shoulders. “I thought I was just sick, you know? So I thought I'd get some bloods and see.”

“Did you do the bloods yourself?”

You looked at him and that was telling enough. With the hand that wasn't with yours he rubbed at his temple in aggravation. So far there'd been little to no talk about the baby growing in your stomach but more concern about how you'd gone to finding out. 

“You should've got me,” he said. 

“Well if I thought I was pregnant I probably would have.” You tried to joke but it fell flat. 

“Probably?” he repeated quietly. 

Silence went by with only the ticking of the clock as company. 

You held onto his hand, readying yourself for the question yet to be asked. “Are you mad at me?”

Robby shook his head but didn't look at you.

“Annnnd are you mad at...” you couldn't say baby yet. Didn't know if giving the clump of cells in your stomach a name would scare him off. 

With the hand in your lap his fingers entwined with yours and clutched tight. 

“I know we never talked about kids and this wasn't planned in the slightest,” you said even if you knew Robby had stopped pulling out months ago, favouring the way you felt when your walls swallowed him up. “You can be angry.”

“You keep asking if I'm angry, do you want me to be?” he asked, finally a touch of emotion in his voice as it rose an octave. “Are you mad?”

That was the question. It wasn't planned, but it wasn't unwanted. You couldn't say that seeing the way mothers caressed their stomachs when they came in with spotting or concerns didn't have you thinking of your own child one day. That talking to that little girl with the head lac earlier with Frank didn't cause a pang of longing in your heart. 

You'd never tried to pretend you didn't want everything with Robby. Even if you've never discussed what everything was to each other. 

“When I was in med school I thought I'd have it all worked out long before now,” said Robby. “Marriage and kids. Maybe on my second marriage by now.”

You dug your elbow into his ribs, rewarded with a quick, breathless laugh. 

His eyes creased as his face scrunched up. “Didn't work out. Guess I... gave up thinking it could.”

“Then you met me, right?”

Robby looked at you. His eyes were like glass as he looked you over, his lips titled, cheeks red under his beard. He looked- if you didn't mind saying so- like a man mesmerised. He nodded. 

“I thought you didn't want kids,” you said. 

“Do you?” he asked, eyes boring into yours. 

“Do you?” you threw back to him. 

He squeezed your hand and gave you a look. 

“I think I do,” you admitted, quietly, as if you could take it back if it displeased him. “I don't know if I'll be good at it. I hardly have time to look after myself, let alone a baby. And I don't want to be one of those people that gives up work for kids cause I love my job but... I think I could love a kid, too.”

Robby nodded along with what you were saying, a smile brightening everything you thought looked dark in him.

“Do you want kids?” you asked. 

“Oh, kids?” he teased. “You're so sure its twins already?”

You rolled your eyes as he nudged his shoulder with yours, rocking the both of your bodies. 

“I want everything with you, I said so much in my vows, didn't I? You thought I was lying, Doctor Robin?”

You couldn't help but smile at the nickname he gave you and was proud to call you. After all, calling out for two Robinavitch's in an emergency proved difficult quickly. “I don't believe your vows included, I want to fuck you so hard and deep you get pregnant within the first year of marriage.' ”

“Dirty mouth, cussing like that,” said Robby, his eyes drifting down your lips as he bit down on his own. “Have to sort that out before the baby gets here.”

“Lucky we have eight months to train it out of me.”

Robby's nose had just brushed yours before he was pulling back, studying you again. His gaze drifted to your stomach, wondering if the manifestation of your nights had started to show. “You're a month along, already?”

You clocked your head side to side. “Give or take a week or two.”

“Eight months it is.”

Robby kissed you, licking into your mouth and breathing you in with deep breaths. His large hands held your cheeks and kept you in, all but drowning you in lips and touch and love. He tilted his head aside, kissing you deeper. 

At once the doors banged open and arguing voices drifted in. 

Robby pulled back with his head lowered in disappointment while you licked the taste of him off your lips. “I swear to god, these kids-” he grumbled as Denis and Trinity stumbled in. 

“Seems like you got the dad thing down already,” you said, hand rubbing up and down in his back. 

The intruders had a hoard of things in arms. Denis was carrying a large bear in hand that almost drowned him as he struggled to hold him. The bear was holding a blue heart sewen into its paws while Trinity was struggling in pulling the pink balloons in. 

It seemed they'd already made bets on what baby they wanted you to have.

“We er, wanted to get you these,” said Denis. “Sorry for ruining the surprise.”

“I'm not sorry, I didn't do anything,” said Santos with a scoff. 

“You told me,” pointed out Whitaker. 

“Yeah and I told you not to tell anyone, fuckleberry then you tell the dad!”

“I thought he knew!”

“I told you in confidence!”

“You were laughing while you were telling me! That wasn't every confident!”

“Oh my god, it's a figure of speech!”

You laughed at the two of them, hiding your face in Robby's scrubs as he leant his head back toward you. 

“Your family’s in town?”

You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries. 

You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone. 

“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”

“Dinner circuit?”

You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”

“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”

You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”

The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.” 

“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”

“So your fucked, basically.”

Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”

Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.” 

“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”

“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”

You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”

He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”

“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”

“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”

“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”

The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”

“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand. 

Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”

Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”

“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”

Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?

You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby. 

“Mom?” 

“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”

“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“

She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.” 

“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“

“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”

You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“

“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him. 

“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”

You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures. 

Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks. 

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”

And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway. 

“You work with my daughter?”

“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”

Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke. 

She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles. 

“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“

You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better. 

Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”

Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely. 

“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”

Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside. 

The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale. 

“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“

“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”

“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”

He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”

You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”

It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack. 

So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.

“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious. 

“Are you joking?”

He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—

“No.”

You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“

“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“

“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”

“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”

Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine. 

“Have you… thought about this?” 

He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere. 

You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?” 

“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”

“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life. 

On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win. 

“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”

Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”

Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients. 

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”

“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”

“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”

Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind. 

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.

In a way. 

You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.

Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go. 

Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door. 

You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.

Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—

“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”

You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape. 

“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“

Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?

“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”

Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing? 

He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain. 

“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”

You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”

“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.” 

You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You could swap me with someone else?”

“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”

“Touché.” 

The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”

“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”

Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom. 

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”

Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go. 

He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly. 

Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.

Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”

He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“

“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.

“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”

He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly. 

“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”

“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”

He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply. 

“You smell good.” 

Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold. 

“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain. 

The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask. 

(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”

“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”

“Fair point.”)

By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them. 

At least, that’s what he says. 

“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”

“Singing your praises, of course.”

Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable. 

The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying. 

As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body. 

The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you. 

You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers: 

“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”

Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you. 

When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves. 

Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“

You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness. 

Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well. 

If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place. 

He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby. 

“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place. 

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack. 

“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“

“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”

Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”

Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”

You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending. 

“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.” 

Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”

Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you. 

“How’d I do?”

You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can. 

To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking: 

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs. 

Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for. 

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

“—How long have the two of you been dating?”

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in. 

Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”

You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes. 

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”

“Why’d you leave?” 

“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”

You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine. 

The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.

Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear. 

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better. 

But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions. 

This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward. 

“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?” 

Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot. 

Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe. 

“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on. 

But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way. 

He’s perfect. 

Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look. 

Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide. 

Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car. 

“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”

Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”

You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?

“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips. 

“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“

“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”

Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”

Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed. 

Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.

“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?” 

He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.

(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)

“Of course I remember.” 

There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present. 

The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)

But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone. 

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact. 

He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking. 

“You’re so much more than them.” 

Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold. 

“What?”

“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.” 

You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat. 

“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“

“No.”

Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly. 

An old habit. 

Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.  

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.” 

Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“

“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.” 

“Jack—“

“Please.”

You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain. 

He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability. 

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress. 

At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.

Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him. 

(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.  

You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)

You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better? 

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?” 

“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad. 

He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you. 

Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”

Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense. 

Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger. 

“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?” 

The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it. 

He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.” 

“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”

“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”

“Maybe I‘ll—“

“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.” 

You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out. 

Sometimes it feels like he balances you out. 

“Goodnight.”

He gives you a little smile of his own. 

“Goodnight.”

—

Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you. 

So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list. 

“This really isn’t a good time—“

“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.” 

“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”

“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“

The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room. 

“She fight back at all?”

“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.” 

“Christ.”

“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”

“Fuck. Do you think—“

“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.” 

Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.” 

“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?” 

“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”

Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”

“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.” 

“That bad?” 

“Yeah.” 

The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand. 

“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”

“It’s different.” 

“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”

“You lost me on that last one.” 

“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.” 

“Is there a difference?”

“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”

“Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“Bit late for that.”

“You could pull back.”

“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”

“She is a grown woman.”

“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone. 

“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”

Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”

The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.” 

He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up. 

“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”

“Worse than you expected?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”

“Fuck no.”

“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.” 

“I save lives too.”

“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”

“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed. 

But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.

—

The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help. 

It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest. 

But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions: 

“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?” 

And: 

“What’s Jack like on a date?” 

The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.

You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him. 

Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume. 

(“…I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.”)

It’s all too much.

Hence the avoiding.

You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner. 

But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack. 

All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack. 

You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else. 

It’s how they treat you. 

You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too. 

But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different. 

It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal. 

“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?” 

You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.

“I’m not hiding from you.”

Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”

“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.” 

“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”

You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Normal how?”

“You seemed pretty upset yesterday. You’re acting like nothing’s changed, but–”

“Nothing has changed.”

Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it. 

You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing. 

It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen. 

“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?” 

“Nothing.”

He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”

He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give. 

“I’m just worried.” 

“You? Worried? No.” 

You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”

“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face. 

“Why do you care?” 

The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place. 

You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do. 

You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense. 

Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense. 

“Why do I care about what?”

“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.” 

It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for. 

He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight. 

“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”

“But why?” 

“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?” 

You snort. “Guilty as charged.” 

Now it’s his turn to sigh. 

“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”

You frown. “It is.” 

“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.” 

You scoff. “So this is about my family.” 

He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They are.” 

“Other people have it worse.”

“It’s not a competition.” 

You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?” 

“Because it’s a big deal to you.” 

The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you. 

It’s Jack who speaks first though. 

“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.” 

A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.

“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.

Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.” 

“We will?” 

“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”

You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out. 

The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him. 

Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.

You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head. 

“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself. 

That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.” 

He would. He totally would. 

The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring. 

(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)

–

The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years. 

The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before. 

The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own. 

It’s as frustrating as it is hot. 

But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment. 

It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out. 

You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below. 

At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like. 

“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.” 

You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever. 

Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads  to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed. 

You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood. 

“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”

Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule." 

“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.” 

Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three. 

Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over. 

“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.” 

He smiles thinly. “None taken.” 

Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure. 

So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary. 

“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?” 

That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man. 

“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.” 

Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”

It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”

“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning. 

Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”

Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t. 

“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”

Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.” 

Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”

Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch. 

“He cheated on me with my best friend.” 

At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.” 

“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.” 

Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”

Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.” 

“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.” 

Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober. 

Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service. 

By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment. 

“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?” 

“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.” 

“Oh. That was nice of you.” 

He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”

You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.” 

“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.” 

“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.” 

You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” 

You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.” 

“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.” 

You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”

Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.” 

Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.

Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same. 

“And what about me?” 

Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.

The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Mmm. Nope.” 

“How come?” 

"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.” 

“You think you’re wrong?”

“Still can’t figure you out.” 

“And how can I show you that I mean it?” 

That’s. Hmm.

“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?” 

“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”

“Competent?” 

“That’s the word.”

If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it. 

“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.” 

“Are you like Bob the Builder?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” 

“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.” 

“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”

“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?” 

“No.” 

‘Then yes.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t lying.” 

“I know. But I like your cooking.”

You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.” 

It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation. 

When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment. 

His gigantic apartment. 

“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.” 

“Its not that big.” 

“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.” 

You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.

You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober. 

“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”

“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.” 

He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”

You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?

“Only if you don’t mind.” 

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.” 

Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.

He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.” 

Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.) 

Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with  tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that. 

“Looking at the sparkles.” 

“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”

“You made vodka pasta?” 

He shrugs. “You said you liked it.” 

You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.” 

Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not. 

“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.” 

“M’ not fallin’ asleep.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?

“What’re’you’ making?”

“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.” 

“Oh. How come?” 

“Because I don’t want you to throw up.” 

“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.” 

“You drink often?” 

“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.” 

“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?” 

“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.” 

“I see.” 

“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being. 

“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.” 

“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.” 

“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit. 

Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”

“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”

“It won’t be when you wake up.”

You whine, curling away from him. 

He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”

“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”

“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”

“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”

“I like sleeping on couches.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.” 

You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”

Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”

“It’d be weird to wake up here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.” 

“What would we even do in the morning?” 

“Sleep.”

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“You’re my guest–” 

“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?” 

Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs. 

“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.” 

Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.” 

The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–

“You okay there?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.” 

He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest. 

“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.” 

Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him. 

Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline. 

You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.

“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him. 

“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment. 

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Good. Like man.” 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.” 

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

“Because you’re a sweetheart.” 

“I am?” 

“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.” 

You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.” 

“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.

You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place. 

It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating

And you love it. 

Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn. 

“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.” 

Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it. 

The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together. 

He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say. 

You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other. 

Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can. 

–

Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit. 

You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again. 

You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place. 

“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”

“Okay. No need to rub it in.” 

He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.” 

“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.” 

Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?” 

“...Yes?” 

“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?” 

You’d nodded. 

He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.” 

Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish. 

The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with. 

He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?

The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety. 

“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.” 

You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle. 

“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”

Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.” 

“True. But what if?”

“I’m not going to help you spiral.” 

“Why not?” You whine. 

He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.” 

You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt. 

When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention. 

But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables. 

The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times. 

Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that. 

There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.

You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.

You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.

You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.  

“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.” 

“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”

“But–”

“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.” 

Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face. 

He looks up when the door opens. “Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation. 

Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food. 

It can’t just be over like this. It can't.

When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.

“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.” 

“So it is.” 

“Guess I owe you big time, huh?” 

“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.” 

“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.” 

You lapse into silence. 

Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”

“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”

It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending. 

It felt real.

It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.

Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.

When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning. 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.” 

Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight. 

“What if I’m wrong?” 

“You won’t be.”

A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.” 

He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm. 

“You do.” 

Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you. 

“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.” 

“You think,” He drawls, “I might.” 

“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry. 

Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh. 

“Come here.” 

You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you. 

Jack does love to prove you wrong.

“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.” 

Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”

“More than a little?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.” 

“Use your words.” 

“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning. 

“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.” 

You frown. “And how would you have put it?” 

“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.” 

You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work. 

You frown. 

Wait. 

“Have you known I liked you this whole time?” 

Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”

He’s known since the second week?

“Oh my god.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”

“Oh my god.”

“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.” 

You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place. 

“Can you take a compliment?” 

“No.” 

He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.” 

“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?” 

“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.” 

“How kind of you to share my bed with me.” 

“I have been told I’m kind.” 

You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips. 

It’s just like your dream. 

Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back. 

It was the first day that interns were able to do rotations through the Pitt during the night shift. In the short time that Amara had been there, she was able to observe a lot of things. So many cases were ones that she had spent years learning about from different textbooks. There was one case that she couldn’t quite figure out though: what was going on with you and Dr. Abbot. 

Amara had many different differential diagnoses: 

Divorced

Situationship

Enemies

Telepathically Connected

Siblings

Unfortunately, all of the evidence she had gathered supported each of the options equally, which made every moment more confusing than the last. 

Hour One

Dr. Abbot seemed nice. His whole “Nightcrawlers” speech was a little weird, but overall endearing; especially for the new interns. Amara walked up to him directly after he was done speaking to everyone and most people had shuffled away. 

“Hi Dr. Abbot, it’s my first rotation here tonight, I was just wondering who I should stick with?” She asked. 

Dr. Abbot opened his mouth to respond, before you interrupted him. 

“I can’t believe you, you know that?!” You almost yelled, shoving your finger in Dr. Abbot’s chest. 

Amara jumped at the sudden intrusion with wide eyes, watching the scene before her play out. 

He smirked looking down at you as he crossed his arms, “Oh, really?” 

“Yeah! Really!” You say, “You ate my fucking leftovers!” 

“They were in the staff fridge.” 

“You knew they were mine! I put them there!” 

“Seems like a design flaw, princess.” 

You looked one second away from committing an unethical war crime against Dr. Abbot. He seemed entirely unbothered. 

Amara schooled her face as quickly as possible when Dr. Abbot turned back to her to respond as you stormed away with a huff. 

Differential Diagnosis: 

Enemies 

Hour Two

Amara tried to stay out of your way after the first interaction she saw you have with Dr. Abbot. But, the ER was a small place, and it wouldn’t do well to try and avoid you for too long. When a trauma came in from a MVC, she stuck by your side to watch as you ran the entire show. 

Dr. Abbot was there too. Amara was in awe. She had studied for years how different kinds of resuscitations worked. The communication each code required from everyone. She had never seen anything like this. 

When things started to go badly, the room almost went silent. She watched as you and Dr. Abbot both worked on the patient like one cohesive unit. Neither of you needed words to let the other know what you needed, or where you needed them. It was a fluid procedure, flawless. 

Differential Diagnosis: 

Telepathically Linked

Hour Three

A nurse had asked if Amara could go grab something from one of the supply closets. It took her a while to find the right one because she was still finding all of the different ins and outs of the Pitt. 

Finally, she came across the supply room in question. Before her hand could even turn the handle, the door swung open. 

You were there. Cheeks flush, breath heavy, hair tousled. Dr. Abbot was behind you, she saw his neck was pink, and he was in the process of tying his scrub pants. 

“Oh! I- uh…” Amara started, too embarrassed to form a complete sentence. 

You froze. Jack froze. Amara looked mortified. 

Time stood still for one long moment. 

Finally, you cleared your throat, “Did you need something?” 

“Oh! Yes! Uh…the nurse, she uh…” 

You followed her gaze to Jack’s hands, still working on tying his scrubs. You closed your eyes and questioned every moment that had led up to this. You took a deep breath in as you glared at him silently communicating your frustrations. 

“What were you looking for?” You asked, trying to refocus Amara’s attention. 

She looks at you and shakes herself out of her haze. 

“Tape! The tape without the latex…” 

“Third shelf back, second from the top.” Jack says coolly. 

“Okay,” Amara nodded. 

“Okay,” Jack said. 

A pause. 

“Thanks,” she whispered as she grabbed the tape and scurried away.

Differential Diagnosis: 

FWB (Confidence: HIGH) 

Hour Six

Six hours into her shift, Amara finally got to use the restroom. It wasn’t unusual that she would be on her feet all day, but nothing could have prepared her for the absolute chaos that was the PTMC’s emergency department. There wasn’t a moment to spare, and as an intern she kept getting pulled in every direction. 

When she finally had a moment of peace in the restroom, she gathered her thoughts about the day thus far. Everyone seemed great! Crus was a phenomenal teacher, some of the other students were fun to work with, and Lena seemed to be a great heart at the center of it all. 

She still couldn’t work out what the situation was with you and Dr. Abbot though. And that bugged her. She had worked her ass off to get in to med school, she’d be damned if she couldn’t read the room and figure out what the situation was with the two of you by the end of the night. 

On her way back from the restroom, she saw the two of you in an empty patient room. 

“You forgot to pick her up?” Jack asked. 

“I thought you were going to pick her up!” You replied.

“It’s not my weekend! It’s yours!” 

“It’s like every weekend is my weekend! You always pick up shifts or volunteer with the SWAT team. How do you think she feels? Huh?” 

The wheels in Amara’s head turned. She tried piecing the puzzle together, but it felt like every hour brought forth new evidence that contradicted the last! Now it sounded like a custody battle was happening in room 16. First, she saw you nearly rip Dr. Abbot’s head off, then she saw how flawlessly the two of you worked together, which was promptly followed by what seemed to be a quickie in the supply closet, and now you were arguing about who’s weekend it was for some unknown kid? 

Differential Diagnosis: 

Divorced 

Hour Eight

“Hey are you guys still recruiting?” Lena asks from across the nurse’s station. 

You and Jack look up from the chart you’re working on. 

“No, we stopped.” You say disappointed. 

“Decided it was probably best for us to act normal.” Jack says.

You and Jack exchange a look. One that only comes from years of being bonded together. 

Amara’s brows furrow in confusion. What would two doctors be recruiting for? It’s not like they’re the ones who are hiring everyone. There’s managers for that. They couldn’t possibly be part of an MLM, Amara was sure the salary of an attending could let them afford to live comfortably on their own. 

As she tried harder and harder to wrack her brain for any more context about the conversation, it hits her. Recruiting. There was really only one option that explained everything she had seen earlier that morning. 

The arguing. The silent communication that came from years of knowing each other. The secret supply closet meetings. The custody agreements. The recruiting. 

It was so obvious, she wasn’t sure how she didn’t see it all before. 

Differential Diagnosis: 

Cult Leaders

Hour Eleven

The longer the shift drug on, the more Amara was determined to understand what exactly was going on with you and Dr. Abbot. She didn’t think about the fact that running on only four hours of sleep, sheer determination, and at least 300mg of caffeine was the only thing keeping her going right now. That wouldn’t impair her judgement at all. Right? 

She went to grab a granola bar from the breakroom when she saw you and Dr. Abbot in two of the chairs. 

“Jack. Give me my jacket.” 

Jack looked down at the garment, “This isn’t your jacket.” 

“Yes it is. It quite literally has my name on it.” 

“It’s our jacket then” 

“No.” 

“Besides,” Jack starts, “You left it at my house.” 

“More like you stole it from me.” You grumble. 

“I borrowed it.” 

“For eight months? Really?” 

“Semantics…” 

You huffed. 

Amara could practically see the lightbulb that illuminated above her head. Of course! The only way she could possibly believe that either of you could get on each other’s nerves like this, or have access to each other’s houses, or understand each other in the unsettling way it seemed you did, would be to understand that you must be siblings! 

She listened in as you continued to bicker. 

“Jack.” 

“Not happening.” 

“Jack, I swear to god…” 

“Nope.” 

“You are literally fifty years old.” You deadpan. 

“All the more reason I should have the Jacket and not you, you spring chicken.” 

Differential Diagnosis: 

Siblings (DEFINITELY) 

Hour Thirteen

The shift ended more hectic than anyone expected. A massive MVC made sure that all hands were on deck until the morning crew was fully ready to take over. Amara had learned a lot in her first day. She just needed confirmation about one final case before going home. 

“Uh…Lena? I have a question before I leave.” 

Lena looked up from the computer where she was talking to the day shift charge nurse, Dana. 

“What’s up, hun?” Dana automatically responded. 

“Well I uh, I just was curious about two of the doctors.” 

Both nurses' brows furrowed. It was never a good sign when someone started blatantly questioning things on their first day, even if they were ultimately right in the end. 

“Go on,” Lena urged. 

Amara looked down at her notes before making eye contact again, “I just wanted to know about Dr. Abbot and…” She looked over at you and nodded her head in your direction. 

Both Dana and Lena’s eyes tracked toward you. 

“What about them?” Dana said with a knowing smirk hiding just under the surface. 

“They’re siblings right?” Amara asked.

As Lena took a sip of tea, it immediately sprayed over the keyboard as soon as she comprehended what amara was asking. Dana tried, and failed, to hide the big grin on her face. 

The commotion made you look over and walk toward the nurses station. 

“Everything okay? Was there something you needed, Amara?” You asked, “You should go home and get some rest. It’s been a long night.” 

Dana and Lena both laugh as they look between you. 

And in that moment, Amara believed that fate was real. And it had a vendetta against her. Because Jack came up and immediately wrapped his hands around your waist from behind. You instinctively leaned into his touch. He spun you around and pulled you in for a gentle, but knowing kiss. 

Amara’s jaw was on the floor. Dana and Lena couldn’t stop laughing. You looked concerned for everyone. 

“She thinks you guys are siblings!” Lena howled. 

Your eyes widened and cheeks involuntarily turned a shade of pink. 

“I didn’t mean-”

You and Jack both break out in laughter now as well. 

“I was trying to get a read on you all day and I couldn’t figure it out!” She said. 

“Aw, sweetie,” You said kindly, “We’re just married.” 

“Yeah,” Jack interrupted, “For too damn long.” 

You slapped his shoulder. He smiled down at you. 

It all made sense. The fighting, the steamy closet session, the bickering, and silent communication. 

No telepathy. 

No cult. 

No divorce. 

Just…marriage. Everything that happened wasn’t pointing to some differential diagnosis Amara had believed to be true at different points in the day. They all pointed to you and Jack, two peas in a pod who apparently were good at confusing the interns. 

You hadn’t seen Dean leave, but the moment you noticed he was gone was the moment you thought shots would be a great idea. Sam hadn’t minded either, letting loose for once.

So there you were, drunk on your ass with Sam Winchester at your side. You were singing an old rock song and muttering something about Dean loving that song when Sam opened the entrance of the bunker. Sam, going down the stairs before you. While you are still mumbling about his brother.

“Where did he go anyway?”

You ask him. The sound was loud enough to echo across the bunker.

“Maybe he was angry.” Sam slurred, dropping himself on a chair in the library. You looked at him, baffled, before sitting down on the chair opposite of him.

“Why would he be angry?” You asked, brow raised in question as you let your feet dangle on the armrest.

“We left him alone, with that woman.”

“Oh no! We left Dean alone, with someone with whom he could do his favorite activity.”

“Jerk.” Sam laughed at you.

“We should be angry! I just want him to hang out with us for once! You know, let loose a little.” The words were coming out slower than you expected them to, emotion lacing thickly in your voice. Your feet are dangling on the armrest of the chair, arm towards Sam, and your bottom lip is sticking out slightly. Pouting at Sam like he has any control over your current predicament.

“You are just jealous.”

You are dumbstruck, eyes wide, looking at Sam like he just set your world on fire. There is sound coming out of your mouth, trying to deny the fact, but your mind can’t think of words that would make any sense. So you sigh, head falling on the chair.

“Of course I’m jealous.”

Sam shakes his head, laughing softly, finding your whole outburst as funny as it was ridiculous.

“Have you seen him! Your brother is hot, Sam.” You exclaim. Sam just starts laughing loudly.

“Don’t laugh at me, Winchester!” You say as you throw a pillow at his face, which misses by a long shot.

But Sam stops laughing anyway, frozen in his place.

Over your shoulder, standing in the doorway with a smirk plastered on his face, like he’d been there the whole time, was Dean. And an idea flickered in his mind. Sam secretly loved sitting with you like this, gossiping about everything and everyone. But he loved poking fun at his brother even more.

It was his lucky day.

“Then do something about it!” Sam said before striking that pillow right back at you. Which struck true.

Dean chuckled, trying to keep quiet, but failing miserably. He couldn’t help but admit to himself that he loved it when you were like this. Carefree, not a worry in sight. He didn’t get to see you like that often.

“Because I’m not what he wants.” You said, and Dean hears the worry return, breaking his happiness like it’s made of glass.

“I don’t want Dean for one night.” You sigh.

Dean freezes completely.

The smirk on his face falters.

“I just want to be with him, sleep in the same bed with him, hold him, kiss him.” 

Something in his chest caves in.

He swallows.

Hard.

His fingers tighten around the beer he is nursing, knuckles turning white.

Immediately, his mind goes into overdrive. You don’t mean this. You can’t. He would have noticed. You're drunk. You’re just…

“I thought that this was just some lust thing,” Sam says, having heard Dean's name in your earlier gossiping sessions one time too many. And for Dean, that is the only logical explanation.

Lust.

That makes sense.

“It was...” You said quietly, “Like six months ago.”

Dean’s reality cracks beneath him. Exhaling through his nose sharply, looking at his brother for some support. But Sam isn’t looking at him. He is looking at you, wide-eyed, the same shock written all over his face.

Pure and utter shock.

“What!” Sam screamed. And if Dean didn’t have to be quiet, he probably would have done the same thing. 

Six months.

And he missed it. He missed all the signs. Or worse, he had seen them but hadn’t let his heart believe it.

He was an inch away from pulling you from your chair and kissing you right then and there, but that probably wasn’t a good idea when you were drunk off your ass.

He wanted you to remember it.

He dragged a hand down his face in frustration.

Of course…

Of course, you would confess to this being completely wasted.

His eyes land on you again.

You are trying to explain to Sam why you, liking him, wasn’t that crazy. And he wanted to hear it. He wanted to hear every cliché thing you had to say about him.

But he wanted you to tell him.

His jaw tightens, resolve settling in.

Tomorrow

—

Dean is whisper-yelling at his brother in the kitchen the next morning. Quiet enough so he won’t wake you, but loud enough to get his emotions clear across.

He is angry.

Not at you, no.

Never at you.

It is his bitch of a brother who is getting the brunt of it. Sam had been leaning against the kitchen counter with a smug smile on his face. Mocking him. “Deano’s got a girlfriend.” Was the first thing that left his mouth.

And Dean had reacted to it too passionately, lighting the fire that is called Sam Winchester. Only making it worse. So there they were, arguing as only siblings can. Sam, with a huge smile on his face, and Dean with a frown that didn’t completely cover the way the corner of his lips tugged upwards.

Secretly, Dean didn’t mind this argument.

Because it was you he was arguing about.

He was arguing about the fact that you had let slip that you wanted him.

He was arguing about him telling you he felt the same way.

And he had never had an argument he enjoyed so much.

“Just man up and ask her out already,” Sam yelled at his brother. For him, it was clear as day. Dean liked you, you liked Dean. What was the problem?

But all Dean saw was something that he could lose.

“We don’t get this,” Dean yelled back. And the moment he said it, his stomach fell. And Sam stopped yelling.

“There are a lot of hunters with a partner.”

“There are also a lot of hunters with a dead partner.”

Sam sighed. “Look…” he started, secretly enjoying the fact that he and Dean were having this so-called ‘chick flick moment.’ “I know you’re scared of losing her, Dean. But don’t you think being with her might be worth that risk?” 

Dean froze, looking away from his brother.

Sam was right.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? You were worth the risk

And that terrified him more than any monster ever could.

“Maybe.” 

Sam's smirk only grew at Dean’s words, “So I repeat…” He started waiting a beat before adding. “Deano’s got a girlfriend.”

“Bitch.” Dean said as he smacked his brother on the back of his head.

“Jerk”

The moment you stepped into the kitchen, the brothers froze. And slowly, a menacing smirk grew on Sam's face. But you weren’t in the headspace to think about why that was. Your head was pounding, and the bunker light was too bright. But before you could even drag yourself towards the counter, Dean handed you a cup of coffee. Your fingers brush his just a moment, but your stomach flutters at the contact.

You looked tired, bags under your eyes, hair in a messy bun, those fuzzy slippers Dean got you for Christmas last year, on your feet. And Dean thought you looked cute as hell. The instinct to protect and take care of you is growing by the minute.

Your eyes reached his, and he smiled.

Not a cocky grin or a smirk.

No.

A warm smile.

A smile that set your world on fire, but one that you didn’t trust for a moment.

“What is going on?” 

“Nothing.” Sam and Dean said in unison.

No… this wasn’t suspicious at all.

You took a sip of your coffee, eyes still locked with the older Winchester. Who had evaded your eyes and was leaning back against the counter, like he didn’t really know what he should be doing now. Sam looked between the two of you once.

Twice.

And you thought about last night. Your drunken confession to Sam. You are sure he wouldn’t tell Dean, but you also knew Sam Winchester was a meddling dickhead who couldn’t leave well enough alone.

And just like that, Sam broke the quiet tension in the kitchen, just to be replaced with even thicker tension.

“I’m going to head out for a few.” He said, with a knowing smile on his face.

You frowned. “Why?’ You asked, knowing exactly why Sam was leaving the bunker, and it had nothing to do with needing a little fresh air.

“Grocery shopping.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “We did that yesterday.”

Sam looked at him like a child who didn’t get something he wanted. “Well, I forgot something.” His tone told you he was done with this conversation.

“I’m going now, I could be gone a while!”

“Sam,” Dean growled. And the sound did more to you than you wanted to admit.

Sam ignored him completely. “Try not to emotionally constipate yourself while I’m gone.”

And with that, he was gone, out the door. The bunker door slammed closed. And all you could do was stand there utterly and completely confused.

You looked at Dean. Only to find his eyes already on you.

“Emotionally constipated?” You repeated

Dean dragged a hand down his face, sighing in defeat. “Ignore him.”

You snorted softly into your coffee.

And Dean’s heart skipped a beat.

You were going to wreck him.

You looked up at him suddenly, squinting your eyes. 

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

Dean's heart felt like it fell all the way to his toes.

You caught him red-handed.

And he had two options at the moment. He could confess. He could confess everything, tell you he heard you, tell you he feels the same, tell you everything. But a little voice was telling him to wait, to feel you out while you were not completely wasted anymore. And he wasn’t completely sure if that voice was his gut, telling him something was wrong…

Or fear.

“Like what?” He said instead, giving in to the nagging feeling in his stomach. And he regretted it the moment he asked.

“Like you know something I don’t.”

A smile tugged on the corner of his lips, and he looked at you again. That same emotion, now mixed with something you didn’t dare to place. “Maybe I do.”

You narrowed your eyes at him immediately, your mind going every which way, but nothing you could come up with made sense. He couldn’t know what you said to Sam last night. Sam would never say anything, right?

But when you looked at him, all you saw was that glimmer in his eyes, and it hadn’t been there yesterday.

“Dean...” You started, suspicion laced thickly in your voice. So thick that he raised an eyebrow. He called your name like he wanted to draw you out, like he wanted to antagonize you.

“Did Sam tell you something?”

A smirk tugged on his lips. 

Suspicious.

Knowing.

“No.” He said, a little too fast for your liking.

“You don’t need to know what it is he could have said to answer that question?” You asked, staring at him like you wanted to read every emotion that crossed his face, because that was exactly what you were trying to do.

“Are you interrogating me, sweetheart?”

And there was something in the way he said that nickname.

He had called you that hundreds of times, maybe thousands, but not like this.

His voice had never sounded so warm, so soft.

Your heart skipped a beat.

“You’re deflecting.”

“And you’re avoiding whatever’s got you lookin’ this nervous.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “I am not nervous,” you said, pausing before the last word of your sentence, which made Dean’s case that much stronger.

You looked away first, focusing very hard on your coffee. “I just maybe regret talking to Sam while drunk.”

Dean’s expression softened immediately.

“Why?”

The question caught you off guard. “Because,” you mumbled, “I said a lot.”

Dean took a slow step closer. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough that you noticed.

“Sam’s not gonna judge you for any of it.”

“I know.” You sighed softly. “That’s not really the problem.”

Dean stayed quiet. As if he wanted you to continue, because he knew exactly where this was going, because he knew you.

You looked up at him reluctantly. “I just don’t usually…” You gestured vaguely, “talk about stuff like that.”

“Stuff like what?”

And you looked at him, a puzzle you were trying to solve. And something told you he knew exactly what you were talking about.

“You know.” He started, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I didn’t get to do my favorite activity yesterday.”

Your eyes widen. What did he just say!

“But I was too mad at my brother and best friend for ditching me with some lady.”

Your cheeks turned bright red, and your heart beat so loud you were afraid it was going to beat out of your chest.

His gaze stayed locked on yours.

Warm.

Certain.

“You talk too much when you drink,” he murmured.

Your eyes widened.

“You heard—”

Dean kissed you before you could finish the sentence.

And wow.

Okay.

Maybe you understand your own problem now.

His hand slid gently against your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek while he kissed you slow enough to make your knees weak. Like he’d thought about this before. Like he knew exactly how he wanted to do it.

When he pulled back, you were both breathing a little unevenly.

Dean rested his forehead lightly against yours, smiling just a little.

“Told you,” he murmured, “I knew somethin’ you didn’t.”

I was hoping that, when I had this many ideas, I could, like, fill up my queue so I won't have to stress about writing, and I could take some time to make everything just right... Didn't really work out like that! Let me know what you think would love to know your thoughts!

Fanfic-idjit tag list: @castielscaplan

maybe it's a sign.

it's nearing 3:00 am in the morning, and you still haven't had a lick of sleep. suddenly everything was too loud, being only able to focus on anything else but actually closing your eyes. there's the occasional sounds of cars driving by, the ticking of your clock--and the bzz of your phone.

you should probably check it, but you know who's calling. you know why you've been hearing it four times in a row. he's just drunk, you tell yourself. but maybe it's a sign, the universe's sign you should pick it up.

but you love him, too much actually. it takes you a minute to turn over and pick up the phone, and another 30 seconds to hesitate pressing the button to answer.

"dean?"

he knows he's been an asshole to you, lashing out and starting arguments with you wasn't something he was planning on doing at all this week. but his dad's off on another hunt, sam ran off to college, and he screwed up a solo hunt just earlier this week because he was distracted. distracted by the thought of you.

you're irritating. you make his heart beat fast, his palms sweaty and worry him whenever you're out of reach. like he's been shot by cupid over and over when he's near you, and even when you're not there. like a sap. you make him feel better just by being there, he hates you. and he hates how that isn't true. he loves you. but that's sammy's thing.

he's not cut out for this, he's an awful guy--always away on hunts, getting drunk and having one night stands are his thing. he knows it, he's owned up to it. falling in love with you? not his thing! he's never been the type for relationships, and he wasn't going to change that for you- is what he told you a few days ago. and since then, you've stopped talking to him. which is okay. he needed to go out and get drunk again anyway.

he's dean winchester, he'd rather jump into a busy street than admit that he's sorry. sorry and in love with you. it's why he's here at a bar, the taste of overpriced drinks in the air and the sound of relaxed lounge music in the background suddenly everywhere around him. he's drunk, he knows--he knows he might forget this in the morning, he knows you probably won't pick up your phone, and you probably won't understand his texts. he knows a lot of things. and one thing is for sure; he's desperate to talk to you. with the help of a drink or two (or ten), he pulls his phone out. his thumb pressed over your contact.

strictly no chick flick moments.. but it won't count if he's drunk, right?

itd me babym.. d. i screewed up imsorry 2:30 am

he orders another drink, downs it in one go. he has the bartender looking at him weird. like he's some helpless, pathetic drunk who recently got into an argument with his girlfriend. it takes him a while to press the right emoji, wanting the one that might get him some more pity points.

im ddo sorry ☹️ 2:37 am

1 missed call and another drink later, another text. now the bartender is refusing to give him a drink, but you're still not picking up. but he's not giving up.

ilove younbabybpick hp pls 2:40 am

"sweetheart.. are you there?" you almost roll your eyes and end the call right then and there. highlight almost, you care too much. you can tell he's drunk based on the way he slurs his words, the long pauses between his words and.. his texts. "yes, dean i'm here. are you only calling me because you're drunk?" "mhm.. obviously.. i jus' wanted to say that 'm sorry sweetheart. i know 'm an asshole.. shouldn't have-have told you that, baby." his words tug at your heartstrings, but you're trying to think with your head, not your heart. you know that better than anyone else. "dean, are you alone?" "all the time." "fuck- dean, where are you right now?" "downtown at that bar we first met.. don't come though, sweetheart. i'll be fine, jus' wanted to tell you 'm sorry." " we can talk about it in the morning." "i'm.. fine."

you hang up before you hear anything else, dragging yourself out of bed and shrugging your jacket on. you look like you just rolled out of bed, and you did, but it's three in the morning and you couldn't give a shit if anyone saw--if anyone was awake at all. atleast, not anybody you know (with the sole exception of dean.)

downtown isn't far from your place, it's a good walking distance actually. so it's not a surprise when you get there fast, stepping inside to a bar with a no smoking sign--it's just there for a guide, the place reeks. you spot him immediately, just from the back of his head--where he's frustrated about the bartender worrying about him. " 's none of your business, holmes." rolling your eyes, you lightly tap him on the shoulder.

"dean let's go back to my place, i can take care of you there better."

"don't fuckin' touch me.." you flinch at his harsh tone, you knew he told you not to come--but he didn't have to be rude about it. you two were of opposite worlds, and this moment only reminds you of that. you know it in the way you're only dressed in your pajamas, you've only just rolled out of your bed--he's been awake, dressed up and having already downed around 13 drinks.

"dean let's just.. go home. i know you didn't want me to come, but please don't start a scene. it's 3 in the morning." you try again, pulling at his shoulder gently. you're trying your best not to attract any attention, the bartender had already been staring at you two with an understanding look. he's seen this play out thousands of times with different people over and over.

"nah.. back off, angelina jolie.. i got a girl already." another woman? is he serious? "quit it, dean." you're trying not to raise your voice, maybe the reason he's been so distant is because you're the problem. he's in another relationship, you're a homewrecker and he's a cheater and- he mumbles your name, his thumb hovers over the call button on his phone again. "w-what?" you chuckle nervously, you're unsure of how to act--you don't know how to. but he's already yelling out your name--your heart almost skips a beat. he's yelling something a long the lines of; "damn it.. i already have my girl.. hic! pissed, can't be talking to some random chick."

is he seriously this drunk?

"your girlfriend's name is..?" you can't help the small smile on your face, the heavy feeling in your heart slowly lifting. going through three emotions in the span of 10 minutes wasn't that bad. he says your name confidently, a crooked grin creeping onto his face. "i told you, back off.. i don't need no side chick, she's.. she's my girl an' i don't need.. anybody else.." "dean-" "nd it doesn't.. hic! help that you sound like her.." "look at me, please." you smile, wiping off the tears that threatened to roll down your cheeks earlier.

"see! mmf, they always go for the taken ones!" stubborn even in an intoxicated state, he refuses to look at another woman because he has you. if only he would actually sneak a glance this time, because that other woman he's refusing to look at; is you right now. it makes you wonder just how many unsuccessful women have been coming up to him to flirt tonight. you can't help the giggle that escapes you, the giddiness you feel has you smiling like an idiot. you murmur your full name into his ear. "dean... i'll spell out my middle name for you if you need it."

"shapeshittteeerrr.." "dean-" "shifter." "call your real girlfriend then." he squints at you for a moment, grumbling as he finally presses the call button on your contact--your phone rings not long after, and you give him a deadpanned look before you pull your phone out for him to see. "hhg.. oops."

dragging a guy that's a little over 6'1 and 183 pounds back to your place is hell, especially because its 3:25 am and you're in no mood to put up with anyone else's bullshit. you let him crash at your couch, because you were not about to haul him upstairs just so he could sleep next to you. you smile at his form snuggled into your extra pillows, pulling your phone out to take a picture.

you drift off not long after, in the chair next to him and with a smile on your face. you can't wait to tease him about this tomorrow, and to seriously talk about your.. relationship now. communication is key after all.

author's note : sorry if dean might b a little ooc, hopefully u guys understood the ref i couldn't think of anything that dean woulf say LMFAO😳🙏 might make a part two, do u guys want that? #lmk👀👀👀👀👀👀

With a deep sigh, he opened the file in front of him and ran his hand over the top page. It was his copy of the deal that he’d finally signed a week ago.

Two weeks ago, George Taskett had called his secretary to arrange a meeting. When Dean showed up at the appointed time, George apologized profusely for what had happened at the theater.

“It’s taken me a little while to reach out to you because I wanted to be able to tell you that Byron Temple had been fired, and before I could do that, I needed to speak to the board about it first. But I can assure you now that he has been permanently removed from his position, and fired from our company. It seems that the board shared my concerns with his lack of moral character.”

George had told Dean that when they investigated a little bit, they’d discovered that the incident at The Manhattan hadn't been the first such incident for Temple. Dean was not surprised, and he was glad that the board of Northern Freight had been all too happy to show him the door.

So with Temple out of the picture, the deal had gone through as originally planned and all three companies were now set to make a lot of money. Winchester Shipping and Lumber was in the best shape it had ever been in.

But he still couldn't sleep at night.

As he tucked the file away, he heard a knock at the door and then Grant's voice when he opened it. Dean couldn't make out what he was saying to the visitor, but if it was anything other than, “come back another day”, Dean might have to fire him.

A minute later, however, Grant was in his doorway to announce his guest. But Dean didn't need the announcement, as he saw his baby brother's towering frame standing behind his butler.

Dean stood up with a frown, walking out from behind his desk as Grant left, and Sam entered his study. “What's wrong?” He asked without preamble.

Sam shook his head. “Nothing's wrong.”

Dean's scowl got deeper. “What do you mean ‘nothing’s wrong’? Then what are you doing here?”

Sam shrugged. “Just wanted to visit my brother.”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against his desk and fixing Sam with a look as he took a seat on one of the leather chairs across from Dean.

“You just wanted to visit?” Dean asked, his voice incredulous. “You thought you'd take a six hour train ride to just…drop in and say hi?”

“Sure.”

“Sam.”

“I just wanted to see how you're doing. See if you're alright.” Sam said innocently.

“Why wouldn't I be?”

Sam sighed. “Cause Y/N isn't.”

Dean's heart beat double time as he scowled again at his little brother. “Sam, honest to god…” He ran a hand through his hair. “This better not be the real reason you're here.”

“It is.” Sam said calmly.

“Well, then I'm sorry you wasted your money on a train ticket, along with six hours of your life.” He held up a finger. “No, twelve, actually, cause you're gonna leave now.”

Sam just continued to stare at him, annoying him profusely. Finally his little brother had the audacity to shake his head and scold him.

“Dean, why did you let her go? I saw you with her, saw you at Christmas. I know you love her.”

“Bullshit!” Dean barked at him, angrily. “You are imagining things, Sam, and I'm not interested in dredging up this same asinine conversation I already had with your wife.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, she told me about it. Just made us even more sure that you were completely in love with Y/N. What we couldn't figure out is why you were so furious about the very idea of loving her.”

“Dammit Sam, drop this!” Dean shouted at him as he straightened up from the desk. 

Sam pointed at him. “Yeah, furious like that.” He shrugged. “But then…I think I figured it out “

"Oh, did you?" Dean asked with a death stare, feeling the panic start to rise up in him.

Sam's voice softened as he looked Dean in the eye. “You're afraid you'll end up like Dad.” 

Dean clenched his jaw and refused to respond.

But eventually Sam just shook his head. “You won't though.”

Fear and panic sat thick in Dean's throat, clogging his voice as he spoke. “You don't know that.”

Sam scoffed. “Yeah, I do.”

Silence reigned for a moment before Dean shuffled back and sat down behind his desk again. His head was pounding harder than ever.

He watched Sam for a while before he shook his head. “You don't remember him the way - I mean, obviously you couldn't remember him how he was. Before. But…” 

He scrubbed an exhausted hand down his face. “I remember. The way he was. I remember him laughing and smiling. The way he'd pick me up when he walked back in the door at the end of the day, ride me around on his shoulders…I remember all of it. And I remember when it was gone. He was like a completely different man. He might as well have died with her, cause he was gone and he never came back.”

Dean closed his eyes. “So, I swore to myself, I swore,” he emphasized, “that I would never do the same. I would NEVER love someone like that and then lose myself completely when they were gone.” 

He shook his head again and opened his eyes to pin Sam with another glare. “I just won't do it.”

Sam sat, quietly nodding for a moment before his brow wrinkled in thought. “Hmm…” He took a deep breath and spoke as he exhaled.

“Do you love me?”

Dean stared at him for a heartbeat before a red flush began climbing up his neck as he answered in a growl. “What are you talking about?”

But Sam just waved away his brother's words. “Nevermind, I already know you do. You love me a lot.”

Dean continued to glare at his annoying little brother, not sure what to even say to that.

“And I know you love Jess and Lucy too. Also a lot.”

“What is your point Sam?” He barked at him, although he thought he'd started to figure it out.

“I know this too, though.” Sam continued without answering him, “If anything ever happened to me or…Jess, or…” He didn't seem able to finish the horrible idea, and Dean felt his stomach churn and his chest ache at the mere thought. 

But Sam pushed on. “If something ever happened, you'd never abandon the ones left behind. You'd never leave us on our own.”

Dean bit his bottom lip, feeling his throat ache from his trapped feelings. 

“Oh yeah?” He asked doubtfully. “And how could you possibly be sure of that?” He smiled without humor. “I am my father's son, after all.”

Sam shrugged. “That may be, but you're also just Dean, my big brother. And he's the most selfless man I've ever known.”

Dean scoffed, but Sam continued over him. 

“You've never put yourself first. Not while you were raising me. Not when you went toe-to-toe with Dad for me, so I could go to law school. Not when you worked a second job outside the business, so that you could pay my whole tuition when Dad refused to pay for it with ‘company money’ as he called it.”

Dean couldn't look at Sam any longer, dipping his head to stare at the wood grain in his desk as his brother continued to heap undeserving praise on him.

“And ever since you took over the company, you've always put your employees first, you take care of them, you work twice as hard as you need to, and pay them a lot more than other companies do, to make sure they can live good, happy lives. I've seen your books, I know it's true.”

“So?” Dean cut into Sam's diatribe, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “Even if all of this praise was true, which it isn't, none of it proves that loving and losing someone wouldn't change all of that. Dad was a good man too, until he loved a woman and lost a woman.”

Sam tightened his jaw. “Maybe he was, but he was also a selfish bastard for abandoning us, for just going off to live alone with his grief and anger. You weren't even five years old, and you'd just lost your mother!” Sam huffed angrily. “He should have cared about that too. He should have cared about you, about us...not just the wife he lost.”

Dean's instinct was to defend their father, but he didn't. He'd begun to see that Sam was right; it had been pretty selfish.

“And I'm telling you,” Sam said with conviction, “if you and Y/N were lucky enough to be blessed with children, you would NEVER abandon them for any reason. Not ever. Because you. are not. our father.” 

Dean heard his little brother's words, and the freedom he found in them, surprised him. It felt like he could breathe deeply for the first time in a very long time. He felt a tear escape and he dashed it away quickly, turning his chair away from Sam and staring at the wall. 

After a moment of quiet, Sam spoke solemnly. "But none of this speculating about how you'd act IF you fell in love with Y/N really matters anyway. Because the plain and simple fact is, you're already in love with her.”

The words still made Dean's stomach clench, and he turned back to Sam and shook his head. “No, I refused, I wouldn't let myself love her.”

Sam rolled his eyes and breathed out harshly. “Damn! You really are a monumental idiot.”

Dean scowled at him, unimpressed with his opinion.

“Dean, you can't stop yourself from loving someone. You can't just control something like that.”

Dean felt the old, familiar panic start to rise in his chest. If he couldn't control it...if he really did love her already…then he'd already lost, and he'd never be free of her hold on him.

I don't wanna be free.

The intrusive thought leaked into his mind and he closed his eyes, trying desperately to deny it but-

“She's leaving.”

Dean's eyes popped open to stare at Sam. 

“What do you mean?” He asked quietly.

“She gave us her notice. She's leaving. Catching a train in a couple of days. That's why I came to shake some sense into you before it's too late. She's going west, says she wants to seek some adventure, but I know it's really because we're all just a constant reminder of you. She's been miserable this whole last month - trying very hard to hide it - but miserable.”

Dean felt a different kind of panic rising as he contemplated Y/N being on the other side of the country, living her life a million miles from his.

She'd get married to someone else - someone who didn't become paralyzed with fear at the thought of needing her in his life. He'd win her over, he'd make her smile, make her happy. He'd give her children; he'd be the damn compatible husband she'd always wanted, and give her the little cottage and respectable life she deserved. 

The exact life he'd told her to go and live just before he made love to her and then snuck out of the room before she woke, like a coward.

He looked at his little brother, desperate now for his help. “Shit. I walked away from her Sam. I left her a goddamn note cause I was too much of a coward to say goodbye to her face. Cause I knew if I spent another minute with her, I'd be so tempted to do anything she wanted, say anything she wanted, just to get her to stay. And I couldn't risk it.”

Sam gave him a scolding look and just shook his head.

Dean's voice was slightly forlorn. “What are the chances she forgives me for that?”

Sam shrugged. “Won't know till you try, coward.”

***

Y/N clutched the handle of her leather bag tightly, gripping it over and over, wearing it smooth from sheer worry. She recognized that traveling alone, to some remote California town she'd never been to was ludicrous and dangerous. But she just couldn't take it another day; she needed to get as far away as she could. 

Living with Sam and Jessica everyday, watching them in their happy, loving marriage, was simply more than she could handle. The fact that occasionally, when Sam smiled or frowned or laughed a certain way, a tiny piece of his big brother would appear on his face, well, that was just the knife in her heart that made leaving quickly a necessity.

So, here she was, on a bench on the train platform, waiting for a train to roll in and carry her away from endless reminders of Dean. But even just sitting on the bench reminded her that she'd first met him while she was sitting on a bench - on that cool day last fall, when he'd burned his way into her life, into her heart and then into her bed. Unfortunately, he'd also burrowed his way into her soul, and she knew he'd never leave.

Even now she imagined that she heard him calling her name over the screaming whistle of the steam engine that was pulling up beside her; it was the train that would take her away from everything she wanted to leave behind. Though she knew she'd never manage it completely.

Y/N frowned slightly as she looked up; she thought she heard his voice again. Was she truly going mad?

But then she saw him, running through the steam on the platform, coming towards her. She jumped up, completely confused, but somehow feeling like she needed to be on her feet.

“Dean?” She asked as he reached her. “Why are you…? What-”

Dean interrupted her. “Don't get on that train. Don't go. I have a proposition for you instead.”

Y/N felt her heart plummet. “Dean-”

“Marry me.”

Her words died in her throat and she just stared at him, her eyes bulging as she tried to work out what was going on.

“Oh,” she said almost sadly, “I've actually gone completely mad now.”

But Dean was shaking his head. “No, sweetheart, I was the crazy one. I was the one who thought I could simply wish away, or will away loving you, but I should have known it was never gonna work.”

Y/N returned to being simply speechless, eyes wide and staring once again, as Dean continued, his voice sincere and ardent.

“Sweetheart, I'm so sorry I didn't stick around to say goodbye. Hell, I'm sorry I even tried to say goodbye in the first place. I'm sorry I was too much of a coward to let myself love you, or admit to it anyway. Seems like I didn't really have much say in the matter. Apparently trying desperately to not love someone, doesn't actually stop you from loving them. Who knew?" He said with a lopsided smile and a shrug.

Still smiling, he took another step towards her and his voice was strong and sure. "But I'm mostly sorry that I didn't wrap my arms around you the very first time I saw you, and absolutely refuse to let you go.”

“That's actually kidnapping!”

Y/N whipped around to see Sam and Jessica standing behind her on the platform with Lucy between them. Jessica slapped Sam's arm for his sarcastic comment. 

“Shush. He's trying.” She waved at Dean and called to him. “You're doing great, champ! Keep going!” 

“Give her the ring, Uncle Dean. Ladies like rings!” Lucy shouted.

Y/N started crying and laughing in the same breath, and nearly choked. But as Dean nodded at his niece and got down on one knee, tears won out and she started crying noisily.

He gazed up at her with a soft smile and slightly glassy eyes. “I wasn't planning to do this with an audience, and I have a lot to explain to you, I know, about why I was such an idiot and how stupid I was to be afraid of loving you.”

“Quit reminding her she'll be marrying a moron!” Sam called out again, and Y/N heard Jessica smack him again. But she couldn't take her eyes off of the massive ring that sat in the velvet box Dean opened and presented to her.

It was a Tiffany's box, she noticed, and inside was a beautiful diamond ring, with a small round emerald in the very center.

“I love you so much, Y/N, and I know I don't deserve you, but please say yes anyway.”

“Yes!” She shouted, taking the box from him and then throwing her arms around his neck, letting him stand up and twirl her around, laughing with him through her tears.

Everyone on the platform clapped happily, as Dean kissed her. 

Sam covered Lucy's eyes but she pushed his hand away, clapping loudly at the little fairytale that had played out for her.

As Dean pulled back, he slipped the ring onto her finger and ran his thumb over her knuckles, before raising her hand to his mouth and kissing the back of it, just like he did the very first day they'd met. It still had the power to make her stomach flutter.

“Do you like it?” He asked, touching the emerald in the center of her ring.

Remembering her prediction that emeralds would always make her cry, brought on even more of those predictable tears. She was happy beyond measure that she'd been both right and wrong about that.

“Yes, I love it.” She said as she kissed him sweetly and then gazed into his bright green eyes. “And I love you, Dean. So much.”

“Thank God. Just...just don't stop. Please?”

Y/N nodded. "Promise." She whispered.

Dean sighed against her lips before claiming them once again.

***

The St. Louis World's Fair. Spring 1904. 

“Lucy Winchester! You've had more than enough of that spun sugar now, come back over here and hold your brother's hand.”

Jessica ran after her six year old with her two year old in tow, until Sam grabbed him up and settled him against his chest. With her hands now free, Jessica grabbed a protesting Lucy away from the cotton candy cart.

Y/N laughed at her former student's frustrated little face and decided to try and help her sister-in-law out. “Luce come here; your cousin needs your help.”

Jessica let go of Lucy's hand so she could run back to her aunt and uncle. Y/N and Dean walked behind them a little ways, with their one year old, Melody, toddling somewhat unsteadily between them.

Y/N let Lucy take Melody's hand. “She loves walking with you and you're so good at showing her just how a real lady walks.”

Lucy beamed proudly as she immediately slowed her pace to allow Melody to keep up, and then walked very sedately to help her little cousin learn how to be a lady.

Jessica smiled brightly over her shoulder and mouthed, thank you to Y/N who laughed lightly. Dean reached over and took her hand now that it was free, swinging it gently back and forth.

Suddenly Y/N remembered Christmas day three years ago and how she'd imagined going to the World's Fair, and walking hand in hand just like this.

There were no cherry trees beside them and the crowds were fairly thick on the pathways around the fair, which meant they were jostled around a bit more than she'd imagined in her idyllic fantasy.

But the feelings she'd imagined back then were exactly the same. Family. Love. Belonging. She stepped closer to Dean and rested her head on his shoulder, squeezing his hand tighter.

He kissed the crown of her head and then whispered to her. “Happy, sweetheart?”

She looked up at him and gave him a mischievous smile. “Happier if you'd kiss me.” 

He pretended to be scandalized. “Mrs. Winchester? In public? In full view of the children?”

Y/N laughed happily, making her in laws look back at them and smile.

Dean leaned down and kissed the tip of her nose. “That's all my strict moral fiber will allow for.” He said in pretentious tones.

Y/N pouted at him playfully and he dipped his head to whisper against the shell of her ear, making her shiver.

“But Mel is sleeping in her cousins’ room with the nanny tonight. So later, in the privacy of our hotel room, I plan on kissing every writhing, shaking inch of your body until you -”

“Auntie!” Y/N was yanked back to reality as Lucy called to her, excitedly. “Melody said my name!”

Trying to ignore the raging fire her husband had kindled within her, Y/N smiled down at Lucy. 

“Well, I'm not surprised. She loves her big cousin.”

Lucy smiled widely before she dropped Melody's hand to run up and tell her parents her good news. Melody started to fuss over her cousin leaving, until Dean scooped her up to sit on his shoulders; then she squealed happily, thrilled to be up so high.

Y/N just watched Dean for a moment, her eyes watering slightly as she thought about how heartbroken she'd been on that Christmas day so long ago, when she'd believed this life was forever beyond her reach.

Dean looked down at her and she picked up his hand again, pressing close to him.

“I love you, you know.”

His beautiful green eyes were warm and overflowing with happiness as he bent his head slightly, holding Melody tightly so she didn't slip, and kissed Y/N senseless. Despite his earlier moral protestations, his kiss was slow and deep and it stole all the air from her lungs.

He pulled back from her and the look of love in his eyes stole her breath all over again as he answered.

"I love you too, sweetheart." He kissed her forehead and spoke softly, for her ears only. "Thanks for teaching me how."

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters:

@lyarr24

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@globetrotter28

@alwaystiredandconfused

@suckitands33

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@jackles010378

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@impala67rollingthroughtown

@candy-coated-misery0731

@krazykelly

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@envyaurora95

@spnwoman

@deans-baby-momma

@arcannaa

@luvr4miya

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@viviwatchestv

@winharry

@ladysparkles78

Dean Fics Only:

@kr804573

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@roonthelittlespoon920

@slamminmine

@zepskies

@safiyas-world

Any/All Fics Regardless of Character or Fandom:

@aylacavebear

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@kazsrm67

@slut-for-evans-stan

@sexyvixen7

@nancymcl

@hobby27

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Everything Incl. Fan Edits:

@waywardcheshire

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@eevvvaa

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@foxyjwls007

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@mrsjenniferwinchester

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@deangirl96

@stoneyggirl2

He walked carefully through his front door, happy to find his home quiet; no one was around as he crossed the foyer to the wide staircase that led up to his bedroom. When he was halfway up, however, he heard Jessica call to him from the bottom.

“Dean! You’re here.”

He sighed. “Evidently.” He said as he stopped and turned back, trying for a smile as she climbed the staircase to join him.

“Why are you here?”

“Well, I do believe I live here.” He said sardonically. 

She cocked her head and gave him a look that said she didn’t think he was funny. “You know what I mean. You’ve barely been around since we’ve been here. Or should I say,” she raised an eyebrow, “since Y/N’s been here.”

Dean gritted his teeth. “I’ve been busy with work. Which is why I’ve gotta get going now.” He pointed upstairs. “I’m late.”

Jessica frowned. “You’re late for work at,” she checked the grandfather clock on the landing. “at seven thirty in the evening?”

Dean sighed. “I’m taking potential business partners to The Manhattan, the vaudeville theater, for a show tonight. I’m just here to get dressed.” 

He’d invited George Taskett and Simon Brighton, the owner of Clearwater Pulp and Paper to come to the show with them. He refused to believe the small voice in the back of his mind that told him he only did it so he wouldn’t be alone with Y/N all evening. He’d simply done it as an apology for being utterly distracted in their meetings earlier that afternoon.

He turned away from Jessica to start up the stairs again, but she reached out to grab his wrist. 

“Wait. I…I wanted to talk to you.”

Dean sighed. “Sure. What is it?”

Jessica let go of his wrist to cross her arms over her waist, stepping up one stair so that she was on the same step as Dean, leveling their heights. It wasn’t often that Dean found himself standing nearly eye to eye with a woman, but Jess was very tall. 

Perfect fit for Sam. Dean thought, even as the fierce look in her eye had him bracing for an onslaught.

“I was wondering what…what are your intentions with Y/N?”

Dean frowned darkly. “Excuse me?”

Jessica raised her chin. “You heard me. Y/N is a respectable woman.”

Dean’s voice was low and strained. “Have I ever insinuated that she isn’t?”

Jessica made a scoffing noise. “I know about the offer you made to her, and I believe that it was less than respectable.”

Dean’s jaw hurt from clenching it so tightly as he spoke. “My private affairs are no business of yours.” He said, turning away and starting back up the stairs.

“They are my business when they concern my governess, a respectable young woman that we’ve taken under our wing.” 

She followed him up the stairs to the landing. “Someone we see as family!” She called out to him when he started up the second half of the stairs.

He turned back to her. “Y/N is a grown woman and is quite capable of making her own decisions. In fact, I doubt very much she’d appreciate this little conversation.”

Jessica stomped up the steps after him. “I know for a fact she doesn’t want me to talk to you, because she told me not to. But I thought…” 

She reached his level again and stared at him for a moment. Then her shoulders deflated and she shook her head. “I thought I could get through to you. Make you understand that you’re throwing away a remarkable woman, kind and caring, beautiful, intelligent.”

Dean waved away her words, running up the rest of the stairs. “I’m well aware of Y/N’s attributes, thank you.”

“Then why wouldn’t you marry her? I mean my god, you love each other, that much is obvious, so I simply don’t understand your reasoning.”

Dean went deathly still, alarm bells screaming in his head. The same bells that had been going off for weeks now, maybe longer. 

He looked back at Jessica and knew his anger was obvious. “That is absolutely not true and you have no idea what you’re talking about! I am not ‘in love’ with anyone, and I have absolutely no intention of ever being married!”

He took a breath and attempted to speak calmly, but his voice was still raised. “Now, since you seem to know all about my life anyway, I’ll tell you straight out that Y/N has refused my offer and will be returning home with you in a couple of days. Seems as though continuing on as a ‘respectable woman’ as you put it, has trumped being ‘in love’.” He spat the words out, his stomach bound in knots and the now familiar panic climbing in his chest.

He turned away from her again and Jessica chased after him. “I simply don’t understand you!” She shouted at him. 

He spun back to face her. “You don’t have to understand me! You just have to mind your own damn business and stop-”

“Mommy?”

Lucy’s little voice interrupted Dean and he turned, still breathing heavily, to see Lucy standing in the doorway to her room, rubbing her eyes. She’d obviously already been in bed and their shouting had woken her up.

“What’s wrong?” 

Jessica walked over to pick her up and give her a shaky smile. “Nothing, poppet. Uncle Dean and I were just…talking.”

Lucy pouted. “Loudly.”

Dean reached over to pinch her cheek lightly, trying hard to keep his voice level. “Sorry, kiddo. Didn’t mean to wake you. I’ve gotta go now anyway, so you go on back to sleep.”

He turned away quickly before Jessica had the chance to say anything more. He tried desperately to erase her words from his mind, but they summed up one of his worst nightmares and he had a hard time wiping them away.

***

Y/N was just starting to wonder whether Dean was simply not going to come, when she saw him appear on the other side of the garden doors, knocking gently.

She stood up from her chair and waved him in. He opened the doors and stepped through, bringing the scent of cold air with him.

He nodded at her and she smiled a false smile.

He cleared his throat before speaking. “I apologize for being late. Work went longer than I expected. But we made a lot of progress. I hope you don't mind but I've invited George Taskett and Simon Brighton to the show with us this evening. Just as a gesture of goodwill while negotiations are being finalized.”

Y/N nodded. “Of course. That's smart.”

He nodded back and an awkward silence sat between them for a few seconds before Dean picked up Y/N’s coat from the chair and held it open for her.

“Well, shall we?”

***

As they jostled along the New York streets, Y/N found herself getting more and more annoyed at the continuing silence between them. If this was how the rest of their time together was going to go, she didn't think she could take it. 

She turned to look at his stiff profile; it was gorgeous like a marble statue, and just as unmoving.

She sighed. “Are we honestly not even going to talk about this?”

She saw his jaw tick. Movement at last! “Talk about what?” He asked, dully.

Y/N refused to answer such a ridiculous and redundant question, merely staring at him until he finally turned his head slightly to look at her briefly before rolling his eyes and looking forward again.

“What is there to talk about, Y/N?”

Y/N barked out a laugh without humor. “A lot, potentially.”

He growled slightly under his breath, and shifted in the seat so his torso faced her. 

“Have you changed your mind? Hmm? Ready to accept my offer after all?”

Y/N's heart squeezed tight and she heard a voice in her mind shout a resounding “Yes!” But she shook her head sadly. 

“No, but-”

“Then that's it, isn't it?! It’s finished. There's nothing else to discuss because we’ve already discussed it. So that's it, and we're done.”

Y/N felt like she'd been kicked in the stomach. She knew he was referring to the discussion being over, but the words went much deeper than their current conversation and they both knew it.

She nodded slightly and turned to stare out the front of the carriage again. “Yes, fine.”

A few minutes later, they finally pulled up outside The Manhattan Theater, which was large and impressive. The lobby inside held a glittering chandelier and lively art on the walls; Y/N knew that under better  circumstances she would have been excited and eager to be there. But the world seemed dim now, all of it lacking in color.

Then, afew minutes after arriving, her evening got much worse.

George Taskett was approaching them with a smile, and walking just behind him was Byron Temple; and he was smiling the way an alligator smiles, like he’s just waiting to swallow you whole.

The two men reached them and George held out his hand to Dean. “Good to see you Winchester and thanks again for the tickets. I don't get out very often when we come up to New York, so this is wonderful.”

He patted Byron on the shoulder. “Hope you don't mind, but Mr. Brighton sent word that he'd been called back to the mill on some urgent business and couldn't attend. So, not wanting the ticket to go to waste, I invited Byron along.”

Dean's smile wasn't echoed in his tone.

“Of course not. Good thinking.” He reached out a hand to Temple and the man shook it, his beady blue eyes calculating and cold. 

Dean stepped back and put his hand on Y/N's lower back. “You both remember my companion, Miss Taylor?”

Y/N bowed her head towards the two men. Taskett smiled warmly. “Of course I remember. Couldn't forget such a lovely face.” 

“Indeed.” Byron said, smiling again and making Y/N's skin crawl. “You seem to have bloomed even more since our last meeting.”

Despite everything going on between them, Y/N pressed herself into Dean's side and was immensely grateful when he slipped his hand around the side of her waist to hold her there.

The lobby lights dimmed briefly, letting them know the show was about to start, so they all filed into the theater. George and Byron were sitting a couple of rows behind them, so they parted ways and took their seats, agreeing to meet in the lobby afterwards.

Y/N was very glad to lose Byron Temple's uncomfortable presence. But as she and Dean sat down beside each other, she began to feel the tension grow between them once again. 

The show began, and the first act was a dancing clown who did a lot more prat falling than dancing. Everyone else laughed and clapped at his antics, but even though Y/N clapped along, she couldn't force herself to laugh. 

She smiled politely through the other acts; a man and a dog who performed tricks together, a comedian who told vaguely risque jokes that she wouldn't have understood a few months ago, a male and female dance act who were decidedly better than the clown, and many other interesting acts. Sometimes they were very talented, and sometimes just unusual. 

But Y/N knew that a few days ago she would have loved them all. Now; however, her heart was simply too battered to enjoy any of it.

Then, just before the last act of the evening, Lillian Russell came on stage. Y/N knew her name; she knew she was a singer. But judging by the reaction of the crowd, she realized that she must be an incredibly popular singer. The audience cheered loudly, clapping for a full minute as Miss Russell stood on stage, graciously waving and curtsying to the crowd.

As the cheers finally quieted, the orchestra struck up and the soprano began to sing. Her voice  was rich and sweet - certainly beautiful enough for Y/N to understand the reaction she’d received. She sang three songs, to the thunderous applause of the audience. But as she tried to leave the stage after the third, the crowd cheered for her to sing more. 

Someone near the front shouted, “After the Ball!” And everyone around him picked up the cry, chanting for her to sing the popular song. 

Y/N's stomach clenched as Miss Russell smiled indulgently and held out a hand towards the orchestra. “Alright, just the chorus through twice then, shall we?”

The familiar notes of the waltz began and Y/N felt tears come to her eyes, letting them fall as the soprano's beautiful voice gave heart wrenching power to the melancholic lyrics.

After the ball is over,

After the break of morn—

After the dancers' leaving;

After the stars are gone;

Many a heart is aching,

If you could read them all;

Many the hopes that have vanished,

After the ball.

As the orchestra played the closing notes and the crowd began to clap wildly, Y/N dipped her head towards Dean quickly.

“Excuse me.” She said, rising and making her way to the end of the aisle and then out into the lobby. Those lyrics had felt a little too relatable and the lilting melody brought back the memory of Dean waltzing with her around her hotel room.

Was that really only yesterday morning? Y/N thought. It felt like a lifetime ago.

She quickly made her way to the ladies room, incredibly grateful that it was empty while the rest of the audience watched the end of the show. She sat on one of the padded benches and tried to get ahold of herself. This whole evening had been a mistake. After their disastrous goodbye earlier, Y/N should have begged off.

As it turned out, pretending she was fine when her heart was splintering into tiny pieces was actually remarkably difficult.

After a minute or two, Y/N felt a little more in control, and splashed some cold water on her face at the sink, patting it dry with her handkerchief and then tucking it back in her purse. She took a big breath and walked back through the door, stopping dead in her tracks when she saw the man waiting for her just outside.

“I saw you run this way.” Byron Temple said in a dark voice. “I thought I should come make sure you were alright.”

Y/N squeezed her hands into fists, immediately disliking the fact that the ladies room was tucked away under the stairs, hidden from the main lobby. She supposed it was designed to give ladies some privacy, but that was the last thing she wanted right now.

She licked her lips and tried to smile. “That's very kind. But I'm fine, thank you. Just powdering my nose. If you'll excuse me, Dean will be waiting for me.”

She tried to step past him, but he snagged her wrist and pushed her further under the stairs. She tugged against his hold, trying to break it, but he held firm.

“Don't know why you're running back to that bastard. I can see that he's made you cry.” He ran his thumb across her cheek and she slapped his hand away. He merely chuckled. 

“I told you before, pet, to call on me when Winchester sets you aside. And I'm guessing by the tension between you two, and the tears staining your cheeks now, that it's either happened or is just about to happen.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Y/N said in a harsh whisper. “Now unhand me and leave me alone.”

“Don't be like that, pet. I promise that I can offer you a lot more than he can. I'll show you just how a woman like you should be treated.” 

Y/N yanked on her wrist again, speaking quietly but angrily. “You are disgusting and vile and I want nothing to do with you, do you hear me? Now let go of me this instant, or I’ll tell Dean what you've said here and he’ll-”

Byron laughed. “No you won't, and if you did, so what? Do you honestly think he’d care when he’s done with you anyway? Do you really believe he's going to toss away the massive deal that’s been brokered between our companies, a deal that’s been six months in the making - just because I upset his little whore?” 

Y/N clenched her jaw, embarrassment spreading through her at the degrading insult. But she had no doubt of her answer. “Yes. I know he would.”

But Byron ignored her, yanking her up against him and shaking his head. “I think what you really need is a taste of what you're missing out on.”

Before she could even squeal a protest he slammed his mouth over hers, shoving his tongue past her closed lips and making her gag. Acting completely on instinct, Y/N bit down on the slimy muscle invading her mouth, making Byron swear and rip his mouth away from hers. 

She could taste the coppery blood he left behind in her mouth, and then he backhanded her and the sharp taste of her own blood mixed with his.

“Fucking bitch.” He growled at her with quiet rage, pushing her backwards until she was shoved up against the wall. “I would have treated you so nice. But I guess now I have to show you what a real man does with nasty whores.” 

He slammed his hand over her mouth and nose, cutting off her air and making her panic instantly. He bent his head slightly, attaching his foul mouth to her neck, while his other hand was shoved up her skirts, grabbing at her thigh and pulling at the ties on her drawers as she struggled against him.

Then suddenly he was ripped away from her and she bent double, gasping air into her starved lungs. 

She looked up in time to see Dean smashing his fist into Temple's face, a loud crunch indicating that his nose was now broken. The older man fell to the ground with a howl and Dean immediately jumped on him, pummeling him endlessly with left and right blows, as blood spewed over the marble floor beneath them.

Coming out of her stupor, Y/N ran to Dean, pulling on his arm, just as a crowd began to gather. George Taskett pushed his way through the crowd to pull on Dean’s other arm, just barely managing to pry him off. 

“What on earth is going on here?” He shouted, obviously very confused.

Dean was breathing harshly, and his tuxedo was askew, but otherwise Temple hadn't managed to get in even a single blow.

“I'll tell you what's happening!” Dean shouted. “The goddamn deal is off.”

Both Y/N and George gave Dean wide-eyed, disbelieving looks. 

“Dean, don't.” Y/N said softly, beginning to tremble.

“What are you talking about, Winchester? What has gone on here?” George asked again, looking down at his Vice President laying on the ground as Byron covered his bleeding, broken nose and, horribly, spat out a tooth.

“If you think for one minute I'm going to do business with scum like this, a man so lacking in moralality that he would-,” Dean cut himself off and then waved dismissively at Temple, “well, then you're crazy.”

He grabbed Y/N's hand and quickly hustled her out through the gathered crowd. Y/N looked back helplessly at George Taskett, who seemed to be completely knocked for a loop.

Dean quickly hailed a cab and helped Y/N up into it. “Rialto Hotel, quickly.” He told the driver as he climbed in behind her. The driver clicked his tongue at the horses and they sped away. 

Dean tried to look at her more closely in the dim light of the carriage, pushing her disheveled hair off of her face. But Y/N was shaking too hard now, as the terror of the situation came crashing down upon her. She just shook her head and buried her face in Dean’s chest, weeping uncontrollably now that she was safe.

Dean gave up trying to see her face and just wrapped his arms around her and held her close. He lifted her out of the cab when they arrived, and refused to put her down until they were inside the room.

She stood in the middle of the floor, while he quickly lit all the lamps and closed the curtains. Then he returned to where she stood and gently peeled her coat off of her shoulders. He stayed behind her to take the pins out of her hair, pulling it back off her face while she inhaled deep, shuddery breaths, finally calming down enough to speak softly to him.

“Thank you.”

Dean just shook his head and turned her to face him, moving her into the light a little more and trying once again to see the damage. She watched his face contort with rage all over again as he saw her split lip and the angry bruise she could feel pulsing under the skin of her right cheekbone.

But he gritted his teeth and his voice was gentle as he kissed her forehead. “Just wait here, sweetheart.”

He moved off to the bathroom and she heard him running the bath. Tears began to fall again as he came back and led her into the warmly lit room, filled with the scent of lavender. 

He removed her clothes gently, and then helped her step into the tub. She looked back at him as he held her hand. 

“Will you hold onto me?” 

Dean nodded and stripped away his clothes quickly, stepping in behind her and sitting them both down in the warm, fragrant water.

For a little while he simply held her as she’d asked, pressing soft kisses to her temple and along her hairline. Eventually he took one of the clean cloths and ran it under the cold water tap for a moment before pressing it to the side of her face that was still throbbing.

“Y/N, what happened?” He finally whispered to her.

So she told him. Her voice was quiet and halting at first, but she eventually told him everything, including what had happened at the poker game.

Dean clicked his tongue. “Sweetheart, why didn't you tell me that sooner? I would have ended things with that snake immediately.”

“Exactly.” Y/N said with conviction. “That's why I didn’t tell you. I knew how important that deal was, how hard you'd worked on it, and I didn't want you to have to end it simply because of some insults from a jackass.”

Dean shook his head. “That wasn't something you needed to worry about.”

Y/N shrugged. “Of course it was. It was important to you.”

“Yes, but not more-” Dean cut himself off and Y/N felt him tense before he continued 

 “You should have told me.”

Y/N nodded. “Yes, I should have.”

Dean was quiet for a minute before pulling the cloth away from her cheek and kissing her there gently. “Ready to get out?”

She nodded again and Dean stood up to help her out of the cooling water.

He dried her off and then combed gently through her hair before braiding it, pampering her in much the same way as he had that first night they’d spent in the hotel together. Y/N knew she would have started crying again, if she’d had any tears left to shed. But she'd finally cried herself out and now she was just exhausted. 

Dean tucked her into bed and seemed to hesitate a moment before climbing in after her and pulling her back against his warm chest. Her heart hurt, and her head ached, but despite that, her tired mind slipped, fairly quickly, into a very restless sleep. 

Some time in the middle of the night Y/N woke to find Dean wasn't beside her. She sat up quickly and sighed in relief when she saw him sitting in one of the green chairs. The light in the room was dim, just one lamp burning, and he was cast in shadows.

“What are you doing?” Y/N called to him softly.

Dean got up and came to sit on the bed facing her. “You punched me twice in your sleep, and I thought maybe I was making you have bad dreams, holding you the way I was.”

Y/N shook her head and shuddered. “No. You weren't the bad guy in my dreams.” She whispered.

Dean pushed her braid back off her shoulder. “I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm sorry I brought him anywhere near your life.”

Y/N frowned. “But it isn't your fault. You couldn't have known. I'm just grateful for the rescue.” She took a deep breath. “You know…he's the reason - one of the reasons - I said no to your offer.”

Dean tensed. “Y/N…”

But she just continued. “Or, well, men just like him. He called me…” The word stuck in her throat and she cleared it. “He called me a whore, you know. And…he wouldn't be the only one. Most of the world would believe the same, if I stayed with you.”

Dean's jaw ticked, but he nodded. “Yes, I understand. And I’m sorry for that. The world can be an ugly, hypocritical place.” 

He licked his lips. “But what I’ve offered you, Y/N, it's…it's all I can offer. I can't…I won't get married, and I won't love you.”

Y/N felt what was left of her heart shatter completely.

Dean spoke softly, shaking his head. “I can't, sweetheart. I won't.” He reiterated before taking a shaky breath. “But you and Jessica are right.”

Y/N frowned, trying hard to keep the ever present tears at bay. “Jessica?”

“Yeah,” he scoffed slightly, “she took me to task earlier tonight. Said I had no right to make an offer like that to a respectable lady.”

He shrugged and one corner of his mouth lifted. “And she was right. You deserve more out of life than to be ostracized by the world. You deserve to get what you always wanted, what you told me you wanted all those months ago.” 

He smiled at her gently and ran his fingers along her jaw. “You deserve contentment, children, a respectable cottage and a…” He paused and cleared his throat, nodding as though he was answering a question in his own mind. “And a compatible husband.” 

Y/N wanted to shout at him that he'd made those things impossible now, that she wouldn’t find contentment without him, that the compatible husband she'd always wanted was sitting right in front of her. 

But she didn't say any of that; he'd made his feelings very clear, and she couldn't fault him for not loving her. It wasn't a given that just because she loved him with every fiber of her being, he was going to love her back.

“I won't love you.”

At least he wasn’t lying to her - trying to hold onto her under false pretenses.

She smiled at him now, through her brokenness. “Yes, I'll hope for those things, I guess. But…” 

She swallowed hard and tugged on his hand. “Will you come back to bed, and do those things you do to me that make me forget everything else? Kiss me until the world fades away to nothing but you and me?”

As he leaned in to claim her mouth in a searing kiss, Dean's bright green eyes glittered like jewels and she knew in that moment, that emeralds would always make her cry.

***

Y/N woke late the next morning and she wasn’t surprised by the empty bed beside her. She'd felt Dean disappear from her before the sun had even broken over the horizon. 

She sat up and saw the note that was tucked under her snow globe on the table. She wrapped the sheet around her and walked over to sit gingerly on the edge of the chair that was closest. She stared down at the folded piece of paper for a couple of minutes before picking it up and unfolding it. 

Dean's neat, bold handwriting took up the whole page.

Y/N read over the short note several times, hoping to find something more than the words on the page, but that was it.

She folded it back up and let it flutter to the floor as she wound up her snow globe and set it down on the table, staring at it as she rested her chin on her folded arms. For a long time, as her tears flowed silently, she drank in the frozen scene of permanent joy that could never be hers.

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters:

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@deangirl96

She stood on tiptoe to reach his mouth, daintily running her tongue along his bottom lip, making him moan and let her in.

She slipped her tongue into his mouth, tentatively running it along his, before Dean groaned deeply and took over. He slid his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his aching body. He kissed her deeply, reaching as far into her as he could, desperate to consume her, to taste her very essence on his tongue.

He forced himself to pull back, to sip at her lips gently, trying to get ahold of himself. He couldn't rush this, didn't want to rush it. He’d craved all of her for so long, he needed to savor her, needed to relish every second, every touch. He dipped his head to kiss the hinge of her jaw, nibbling at it softly before sliding his lips down her neck. 

Y/N moaned loudly as he sucked hard on the delicate skin at the base of her throat. The action made fire shoot straight to her core and she began working at the buttons on his shirt, trying to get it off. She managed to open it far enough for her to slip her hands Inside and caress his warm skin, rubbing her thumb over his nipple and making him shiver.

Pulling back from her, Dean turned Y/N slowly so he could begin unbuttoning the tiny buttons that ran down the back of her dress. When he reached her waistband, he spread the material wide to slip it off her shoulders and then down over her petticoat to pool on the ground around her. He untied her petticoat next, letting it drop to the floor as well.

Next came her corset cover which he tossed aside, and then her corset. As he slowly loosened the laces, he leaned down to press a delicate kiss to her bare shoulder. He let his teeth scrape gently along her satiny skin, which brought on a shiver for her this time.

When the laces on her corset were loosened enough, Dean walked around to the front of her and began unhooking it. When he finally got it open, he pulled it from her torso and dropped it at their feet too.

He smirked at her and raised an eyebrow. “Every time I undress you, I feel like I'm unwrapping a present, and it's everything I can do not to just tear through the wrapping.”

Y/N chuckled and spoke breathlessly. “Well, I said I had another gift to give you. So, feel free to rip things a little.”

Dean hummed in satisfaction and reached under her chemise to yank down her drawers, taking an inordinate amount of pleasure in the sound of the dainty stitches tearing.

Finally he lifted her chemise over her head to leave her standing naked in the lamplight. He turned away from her for a moment to tug the curtains closed over the garden doors, just in case. Then he turned back and sighed deeply as he stared at her.

“My god.” He whispered. “I've never seen anything so beautiful in my entire life.”

Y/N ducked her head but resisted the urge to cover herself shyly. This wasn't the time to be bashful. Instead she stepped up to him, and took the two sides of his shirt in her hands. 

She looked up at him with a grin. “My turn to rip?” She asked and he nodded. Immediately she yanked his shirt open, tearing off his last few buttons and letting them roll away.

Then she unbuttoned his pants slowly, pushing them and his underwear down over his hips until the two of them stood completely naked, happily drinking each other in.

Even though they'd done this part many times before, Dean didn't want to overwhelm Y/N or rush her, so he let her stare as long as she wanted. He encouraged her with a nod when she reached out her hand to stroke him, clenching his fists at his sides when she squeezed him gently. 

As she continued, he reached up and began pulling the pins from her hair. She stepped closer to him, so it was only the width of her hand that stayed between them as she stroked him. 

As her hair tumbled down lock by lock, she peppered kisses across Dean’s chest, sucking on his skin to leave behind a mark, the same as he’d left on her. When her hair was down completely, Dean buried his hands in it, tilting her mouth up to him and licking it open, swallowing up her soft moans and quiet sighs of pleasure.

He let his hands slip out of her hair to trail down her back, fingertips lightly teasing her skin as they ran down her spine. He pushed his hands down over her backside, squeezing her gently and then lifting her. She squealed a little as she threw her arms around his neck, and Dean helped her wrap her legs around his waist. His light chuckle turned into a moan as he felt her wet heat rub against the tip of his hardening cock. 

He carried her to the bed, climbing up on his knees and letting them both tumble to the sheets in a tangle of limbs. He immediately claimed her lips again, letting some of his overwhelming passion through as he delved his tongue back inside her mouth, urgently ravishing her as he sucked on her tongue.

He slowly moved down her body, hands pressing into her skin, lips whispering softly over her flesh, occasionally biting and nipping and then soothing her with his warm tongue. She felt as though he was setting her whole body on fire, the heat burning under his lips and then under her skin. She pushed her hands through his hair as he reached the apex of her thighs, tugging gently when she felt his tongue sweep through her wet folds.

He teased and tormented her with his mouth, until she was shaking and instinctively lifting her hips, pushing against face. He kissed the tops of her inner thighs as he pressed his hand against her lower belly to hold her in place as he called to her.

“Y/N, sweetheart, look at me.”

She shook her head, reaching for him blindly, desperate to get his mouth back on her. But he wouldn’t relent and finally she pried her eyes open and looked down the length of her body to where his chin rested on her lower belly. His forefinger swirled lazily against her extraordinarily sensitive bundle of nerves, making her squirm.

“I want to tell you what I’m going to do next, so it doesn’t surprise or scare you.”

Y/N tried to pull reason back into her mind and listen to what he was saying, but it wasn’t an easy feat. 

“I’m going to push my fingers into your body now. It won’t hurt, I’ll go very slowly. But before you can take all of me, I need to stretch you open a little bit. Do you understand? So that when the time comes for me to enter you, that won’t hurt you either.”

Y/N felt a small shiver of anticipation mixed with a shred of trepidation, but she nodded to tell him that she understood. Words were still quite beyond her.

He bent his head again, flicking his tongue back and forth across her very stimulated little button, as his fingers stroked through her wetness. Then she could feel a little bit of pressure, just before she gasped as his finger breached her body. 

Just as he promised, it didn’t hurt. It was a slightly strange sensation, kind of a full feeling that accompanied the tightening and flutter in her stomach as he moved his finger in and out of her, sinking it a little deeper each time.

Finally he had his whole middle finger sunk into her and she decided that she liked that full feeling, it felt…she couldn’t place the feeling, couldn’t name it amongst all her other rioting emotions and sensations. But she knew she liked it, and somehow wanted more.

As though reading her mind, Dean whispered against her dripping heat. “I’m going to use a second finger, tell me if it’s too much.”

She felt herself stretched wider and it was exactly what she’d been wanting. He eased his way inside her as he had before, slowly, methodically plucking pleasure from deep inside her. This time she felt him scissor his fingers, and open her up even further. He began to move more quickly in and out of her body, pumping harder, and she could feel how the wetness dripped between her legs, drenching the sheet under her. She would have been embarrassed if it didn’t feel so incredible.

And then Dean touched something deep inside her that made her hips buck off the bed. He pressed her back down with the hand he held on her belly. He touched the spot again and she screamed, she couldn’t help it; it was like nothing she’d ever felt before. He pressed on it for the third time and her whole body seized with her climax. Her thighs clamped tight around Dean’s wrist as she clawed mindlessly at his shoulders.

As soon as she began to return to some semblance of normal, he crooked his finger inside her, pressing that spot again and she was lost to ecstasy once more. 

Finally, when she was just a shaking mess beneath him, he pulled his fingers out of her and moved to kneel between her legs. He fit his big hands under her knees and opened her legs as wide as they would go, pushing them up towards her chest. She opened her eyes enough to see him as he towered above her. His breathing was shallow and his muscles rippled with restraint.

“Just relax, sweetheart.” Dean told her, turning his head to press a kiss to her calf. “I’ve got you.”

Y/N nodded and let her head fall back, trusting Dean completely. He let go of her left knee for a moment to take hold of himself and line up with her entrance. Then he pushed her knee open again and slowly eased his way inside her. 

This stretch was so much more than his fingers, he pushed in inch by slow inch, allowing her plenty of time to get used to him before moving ever deeper. As he entered her fully, pressing against her so tight and burying his face in the crook of her neck, he was panting, muscles trembling from holding himself in check above her.

“Are you alright, sweetheart." He asked in a strained voice. "How do you feel?”

She ran her hands up and down the sweat-slicked muscles in his arms, nodding as she marveled at the feeling of fullness, completeness, that swept over her. 

It was then that she recognized what that unknown feeling was swirling through her. It was a fierce sense of connection. Something much deeper than two bodies linked together, it was more than she could possibly explain, but it was beautiful and all-consuming, and it brought tears to her eyes.

She answered around her clogged throat. “I’m good, Dean. I’m beautiful.” It wasn’t really what she meant. She meant it was beautiful, he was beautiful, them together, the moment they were creating was beautiful.

But Dean just nodded and sipped away one of her tears. “Yeah, you are.”

As he’d done with his fingers, he began to move his hard, thick length slowly in and out of her body, creating a blessed and excruciating friction that had her begging him to move faster, urging him on, pushing her hand against his lower back to sink him deeper into her. The coil in her stomach wound tighter and tighter with every thrust. 

Then he shifted her slightly and he was hitting that spot again, harder this time, making the sharp wave of bliss that moved through her, feel otherworldly. She shattered around him once again, feeling as though she was just a ball of light and sensation.

It took a few moments for her to return to earth. When she did she opened her eyes, letting herself take in the exquisite sight of Dean moving above her, muscles bulging and straining. The veins in his neck stood out as he gritted his teeth and ground his hips against her, driving into the tight sheath of her body over and over.

Finally, after a minute, he yanked himself out of her, shifting to the side to shudder and rock his hips against the mattress as he shouted out her name almost painfully. He collapsed against the sheets, linking an arm around her waist to keep her connected to him as he tried to recover.

Their breaths kept the same cadence, rising and falling in unison. Dean reached across Y/N to pull the blanket up over her rapidly cooling body, even while he was still lying prone and otherwise not moving.

Y/N rolled onto her side to get closer to him and Dean groaned as he turned to face her. He smiled at her, his face exhausted. “How are you doing, sweetheart?”

She sighed and snuggled even closer to him and she realized she already missed the feeling of being connected to him. It was as close as she could ever come to having all of him for herself. Those thoughts carried sadness with them, so she pushed them away, smiling as she answered.

“I’m wonderful. I feel incredible. I want more.” She said with a wide yawn. 

Dean chuckled and leaned forward to kiss her lightly and then smile softly, breathing his words into her.

“Sleep now, sleepy girl. There can be more tomorrow.”

Y/N nodded, her exhausted mind and body already half asleep. But the word “tomorrow” seemed to echo in her mind, accompanying her into her dreams and mocking her there.

***

The next morning Y/N woke up slowly, her body inexplicably stiff and sore, until she awoke fully and remembered the reason why. She looked for Dean and found him sitting on the end of the bed, fully dressed and tying up his shoe.

“Dean?” She croaked at him.

He turned back to see her and a bright smile spread across his face. “Oh, good. You’re awake. You were sleeping so soundly I would have felt terrible waking you up.” 

He stood and walked to her side of the bed, his brow wrinkled with concern. “How do you feel?”

Y/N was surprised that she felt no embarrassment as she took stock of herself. She was stiff and a little sore, but she was good, no shame or shyness about what happened. It had been too perfect for that.

She nodded. “I feel amazing.” 

Dean kissed her softly and smiled against her lips. “Good.” He said simply.

She raised an eyebrow and touched a finger to his tie. “Are you leaving?”

He sighed deeply. “Yeah, I’ve gotta go into work. You and I have the show at The Manhattan tonight, that variety thing. So before then I should really try to get something done. I've gotta meet with the company’s lawyer. I think we almost have the deal with Northern Freight and Clearwater sewn up. Clearwater’s been on board from the beginning and Taskett seemed really close to accepting the terms the last time we spoke, so…” He raised crossed fingers.

Y/N smiled. “That’s wonderful, Dean. You should be so proud.”

Dean shrugged and looked slightly sheepish. “Well, can’t be too proud till all the T’s are crossed and the I’s are dotted.”

Y/N leaned forward and kissed him again. She meant it to be a brief good luck kiss, but when she tried to move away, Dean wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and kept her there, plunging his tongue into her mouth. She whimpered slightly and immediately sank into him. He pushed her onto her back and went with her, stretching out over her torso.

He slipped his hands under her, sliding them down her body to massage her backside, making her moan at the way his hard fingers pushed and pressed her sore muscles, before letting go of her so he could swipe his middle finger through her folds before gently pushing it into her body.

He went far enough that he could press on that magic spot deep inside her again, making her cling to him and push down on his hand, lifting her head from the pillow to bury her face in his neck.

As he rubbed his calloused fingertips against the spot over and over, she let out a cry of pleasure and once again found herself floating through oblivion as Dean rolled her under him completely and placed light kisses across her forehead and cheeks. 

Her breathing slowly returned to normal and she sighed deeply. “You can’t honestly do that to me and then just go to work, can you? You promised me more.”

Dean moaned slightly and began to move his lips down her body. “I have to, I’ve been neglecting work a lot lately, and I have to…” He cut himself off as he pulled her nipple into his mouth. 

She pushed her fingers through his neatly combed hair, scraping her nails against his scalp. He shuddered and she whispered. “Stay.”

So he did.

***

Hours later Dean was up and getting ready for work for the second time that day. He sat down on Y/N’s side of the bed again and pushed her hair back off of her forehead. She was cocooned under the blankets, utterly worn out.

“So, I was thinking…” He began.

Y/N groaned to indicate she was listening, and he chuckled. “So, we’ve got the show tonight, and I’ve gotta work now, but tomorrow we should start looking for a house for you.”

Y/N’s eyes popped open and she was suddenly wide awake, sitting up and clutching the covers to her chest as Dean stood and moved to the wardrobe mirror to tie his tie.

“A house?” Y/N questioned with a sinking feeling in her stomach. “Why?”

Dean shrugged. “Well, I mean we can get you an apartment if you want, but I think renting you a house is a better option. You’ll have more privacy and more space.” 

He caught her eye in the mirror and Y/N shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Dean.” She whispered. “Dean, I…I can’t…stay. With you.”

She felt her heart lodge in her throat and tears gather in the corners of her eyes. Dean turned quickly to face her, confusion written all over his face. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry.”

Dean shook his head and frowned. “But you…last night…”

Y/N swallowed hard, finishing his sentence as she dashed away a tear. “...was wonderful. It was everything I could have ever wanted. It was perfect. But I just…”

Her words fell away and she bit her lip, looking down at her lap before she continued. “I just can’t be a mistress.”

Dean’s bright green eyes dulled and a muscle ticked in his jaw before he slowly turned away from her, leaving her to stare at his stunning profile. 

“Well, alright then.”

His voice was so quiet, and hurt curled around his words. Y/N felt awful and put a hand out to him. “Dean, I’m so sorry. It’s just-”

“No.” He cut her off with a quick slice of his hand through the air, plastering a smile on his face as he looked back at her. “That’s fine.”

“Dean-”

“Seriously, don’t.” He interrupted again before taking a deep breath. “Just don’t. Look, you don’t owe me an explanation. It’s fine. You know, we’ve had some fun, and we got a couple days left, we’ll just enjoy them and leave it at that.”

He gave her a smile that had no warmth. “Yeah?”

All she could do was nod. 

“Great.” He finished, grabbing his coat from the hook and tossing it over his arm. “I’ll be back at around 7:30 to pick you up for the show. Sound good?”

Y/N nodded again. “Yes, that’s fine.” She said, her heart quietly breaking.

“Great.” He paused a moment before walking out the door. “See ya.” He called back to her.

The door closed quietly, but she still flinched slightly, as though it had been slammed. A part of her wanted to run out of the room in nothing but a sheet to chase Dean down and tell him she was wrong and she'd changed her mind. But that would be a lie.

After making love to Dean for real, completely giving herself to him, she was more sure than ever that she could never accept getting just a little bit of him, for just a little bit of time. She needed all of him, forever. And if she couldn't have that, then she would take nothing, she would take solitude.

Because there was no replacing him. 

But being sure in her decision didn’t stop it from slicing her heart open. On top of her own heartbreak, Dean had seemed hurt; he’d obviously believed that her decision to be with him last night would be echoed in a decision to stay with him now.

She’d wanted to explain her reasons to him, explain her decision. But he had no use for that, he didn’t care what the reasons were. She was turning down his incredibly generous offer, so all the reasons amounted to the same thing - so why waste his time, she supposed. 

She lay back on the bed, curling herself into a ball, and letting her tears flow. They felt endless and she was desperate to get rid of them all before Dean came back. If he could “enjoy the rest of their time together” then so could she.

Or she could lie about it at least; she was getting pretty at lying to herself. Being with Dean had taught her so many new things.

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters:

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